Death and the Bad Luck Kid
by tsohg a ma I
Summary: First, a black cat crossed my path. Nine years, nine lives. A mirror shattered at my feet. Another nine years. A ring of salt spilled upon the ground—another year—step outside of it and you're dead. Or was I dead all along? Demons don't exercise themselves. And the dead don't walk until I say so. Given the chance, would you abandon your mortality? Nothing comes without its price.
1. The Last Nail in the Coffin

**So, here is my attempt at a smut filled vampire romance.**

 **...Yaaaaaay.** **#enthusiastic #notreally**

 **Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

 **DEATH AND THE BAD LUCK KID**

 **CHAPTER 1: THE FINAL NAIL IN THE COFFIN**

I've never been good with loss. Death, or any finite thing in general, has never been a concept I could handle with any form of grace—never since I was old enough to understand it. I don't cope well. Like, at all. I go completely off my rocker just thinkin' about it. I'm not a strong person. I'm not even a strong minded person. A stiff wind could blow me over and a strong word could bring me to tears in seconds. Everybody who knows me would tell you the same thing. Well, everyone except for my mama, that is…

There's a story here. Somewhere. I suppose I should probably tell it to you. It's pretty long though, and I suck at telling 'em—hard to know where to begin, ya know? It's also pretty complicated… Scratch that. Really, _really_ complicated. And with the vamps out of the coffin now, it's like the entire world is going crazy. Not that it wasn't crazy to begin with. Picture a regular old hornets' nest. Now picture a stupid kid poking it with a stick. That stupid kid would be the vamps. Don't tell any of 'em I said that though. Then you'll never get to hear the end of the story.

I suppose it all started with my cat Fluffy.

Yes. I know. It's a lovely, dignified old name for a lovely, dignified old tom cat. The originality of six-year-olds is staggering, right? I loved that grumpy cat more than I could possibly express. His whiskers always had dust caught up in 'em from chasing mice in the upper lofts in the barn, and his big, black bottlebrush tail twitched when he was annoyed with me and my cousin Anthony for touching his ears. And he absolutely _hated_ our big muscly pitbull, Gus. He was my pop-pop's dog—a rescue from the fight pits that he rehabilitated himself. He was friendly enough now, but I was always afraid of him, and Gus absolutely _hated_ Fluffy.

It was only inevitable that one day Gus would kill him.

He was a bigger, stronger predator, Grandpop said. Couldn't blame him, he said. The cat provoked him, he said. You don't ever run from a predator, Grandpop told me. They like the chase. They can smell your fear, hear the pulse and twitch of your frantic heartbeat in your chest. The chase what a predator lives for. And that's just what Gus did. Chased Fluffy right up our hundred year oak—the one with the tire swing Anthony pushed me on. Fluffy would've been fine if he'd stayed there, just like every other time Gus went berserk. But the window in Fluffy's loft was open, and he tried to make the jump…

Despite rumor to the contrary, not all cats land on their feet…

No, Fluffy was old, and his reflexes were dim. Fluffy landed on his neck, and he didn't move again. Mama managed to get to him before Gus could, calming the mad dog with a touch. Her and Pop-pop were the only two who could do that. But there was nothing she could do for Fluffy. Not anymore, she told me. There was nothing _to_ be done, other than to put Fluffy in a box in a hole in the ground. I was six, and it was the first time I really, fully understood what it meant to die.

It terrified me.

And I couldn't accept it.

I wouldn't.

It was around that same time that Anthony and I found some of Mama's old trunks and Tony taught me how to pick the padlocks with some bobby pins. The trunks had come with her when she married Daddy, Pop-pop said. Pop-pop never really liked Mama too much, or at least he never acted like he did. Called her a witch. But she just smiled, and cooked him breakfast every morning. And Pop-pop let her stay at the farm, even after Daddy got run over by a tractor when I was two.

My family was a little weird, what with Aunt Dede being an alcoholic and leaving Anthony at the farm with us all the time, and Daddy getting run over by the tractor, and Uncle Lex disappearing—and no one ever talked about Mama's side of the family; Pop-pop said they were all a bunch of lunatics, and Mama didn't say anything confirm or deny it. She was always strangely tight lipped about her people, and as far as I was concerned, her life began when she became my Mama. Or at least that's what she told me. But after Tony and I found those books in her trunk along with a whole bunch of other weird stuff—animal bones, various silver instruments I didn't know the function of, ornate knives, bundles of herbs, crystals, oils, and a vial of something that looked vaguely like _blood_ —I started to think that wasn't strictly the truth…

The books were all ancient looking and handwritten on yellowed parchment paper—at least I think it was paper…it was almost thick enough to be…and the consistency was close to… _ugh_ … I didn't understand a lot of the rituals these books described, but Anthony automatically recognized them for what they were: _Spell books._ Mama really was a witch, he said. And since I worshiped the ground Anthony walked upon back then, I believed him.

I really probably would've been better off if I hadn't…

We were two kids playing with forces we didn't understand in the slightest. There were a reason Mama's tools of trade were locked away. Looking back, I don't even know how we managed to break the lock without losing fingers. It probably had something to do with the fact that I was the one to do it. Anthony just walked me through it. He liked to teach me things, I remember. And after studying Mama's spell books in the secrecy of the loft, he told me we were going to bring Fluffy back.

Anthony's heart was in the right place. It always is. But that night will be one that I will never forget until the day I die. Magic is a funny thing. Magic is life. For there to be life—magic—there must be an equal sacrifice. Blood, tears, you name it; it varies by the type of magic you're performing. And that night, Anthony and I had absolutely no idea what we were trying to accomplish. Well, we were pretty sure we knew what we wanted to happen, but we had no true understanding of what that _meant_ yet.

That night, we tapped into the universe.

When we're young, we think we know everything. The world is our oyster, and there's nothing that could possibly jar our understanding of it. There are rules that dictate the way things are, and nothing can deviate from them. We are safe in this understanding. Nothing can hurt us… We were so very, _very_ wrong. That night, when we reached out into the darkness, blindly, unknowing…something reached back. It saw us. And we had no idea what it was. It wasn't sentient—not like we understand it. But it was unfathomably vast, and powerful. It was everything. Everything around us, everything in us, everything that had been, and everything that would ever be; life, death, everything. And in that moment before I came apart, before I became one with it, I understood all of it.

I think it was god.

Not that thing people worship at church, nor any other religion as far as I know. Perhaps I am just unreceptive to such practices, but the warm, safe, giving feeling that comes with worship had nothing to do with this. This was beyond worship. Beyond supplications of any kind. You do not pray to it. It does not care about us. It does not hear you. It knows only sacrifice, and what comes in return. You get what you give. And you get what you deserve. These are the rules of the universe plays by. And Anthony and I were playing without knowing any of them, and I paid the price for it.

I died for a little while the night we brought Fluffy back.

A life for a life.

If Anthony hadn't found Mama in time, I would've _stayed_ dead.

A life for a life.

I never got to say goodbye to her.

* * *

Things were never the same again after that night.

I didn't speak for several months, no matter how fervently Anthony or Pop-pop would entreat me to. I merely stayed in bed and held my cat—now very much alive, I might add, and so was I, but Mama wasn't. It was ten months after her funeral, ten months after I had died and come back to life that Pop-pop finally called Aunt Sage. We'd met at the wake. She said to call her when we were ready. Pop-pop told her to get off his property that day, but when I woke up screaming for the umpteenth time, the stubborn old man finally gave in to Anthony's pleading and called the number on the woman's business card.

She sat down in my room one day without saying a word.

Fluffy—oddly enough, since he doesn't like anyone—jumped down from the foot of my bed and right into the woman's lap. He'd been acting strange ever since the incident, hardly leaving my side once—which was strange, since he was normally a very independent cat. The woman whose lap he had claimed shared the same bright red-auburn hair as my mom and I. It was easy to tell the family resemblance; high, rounded cheekbones with little attractive hallows beneath, cupid's bow lips, and a pointed chin, just like Mama. The only difference with me is that my eyes were a deep green instead of the aqua blue Mama shared with her sister.

Those eyes fixed pointedly on Fluffy's orange ones and the crisply dressed woman addressed the feline chastisingly, "Well you've caused quite the spot of trouble, my fine furry friend. Just what in the world am I to do with the two of you? Not to mention the boy… He'll be trouble too, I'm sure."

She patted Fluffy aimlessly, transferring her piercing gaze to me next. I was already staring back at her, stiff and wary, but unwilling to commit to ejecting her from my bedroom. She'd leave eventually once she got tired of having a one way conversation. But it seemed Aunt Sage had no issue with that whatsoever. It soon became clear that she had come with something to say, and not the intention to listen.

"Do you understand what happened that night?" she asked briskly, her eyes knowing. Her accent sounded Scottish.

Hesitantly, I nodded. Yes, I understood very well what had happened that night. Intimately. That didn't mean I wanted to talk about it. In fact, I'd be very happy to never think about it again. I was through with magic. I never wanted to have anything to do with those spell books or anything remotely supernatural in my life.

"Good," Aunt Sage nodded back. "Although I can't say the same for your imbecile cousin. I take it most of this was his idea, no?"

Again, I gave a solemn, hesitant nod, feeling vaguely as if she had read my mind.

"I suspected as much," she sighed, shaking her head. "The boy is shaken up, without a doubt, but I don't see it dampening his enthusiasm any time soon. Pity. You, on the other hand, my dear… You have not come out so unscathed." She eyed my form up and down, ending up on my face as she studied me carefully, petting the cat on her lap with serene motions. "You're changed. As you all are—the boy, the old man, even the cat—but you especially."

I stared down at my hands in my lap.

"You died that night Amity," she said quietly, "this much I think you know. But do you know why you are still alive?"

A sudden crushing weight felt like it was pressing upon my insides, and I felt my face crumple as tears stung at my eyes, but didn't fall. "Mama…" I managed to choke out, my voice hoarse from disuse.

"That's right." The woman leaned back in the rocking chair Mama and I used to sit and read together in, and looked upon me dispassionately. "My sister gave up her life to fix your mistake. Her life, is now _your_ life," She scratched behind Fluffy's ears with a wry sort of twist to her lips, "just as your life, is now _this_ handsome little fellow's life. The two of you are connected now—though it's a rather unorthodox way of earning a familiar. Rather like killing an ant with a sledgehammer." She eyed me pointedly. "That was a very dark ritual you and your hick cousin performed. Very advanced. Younglings of our order would have been out of their minds before they attempted such a thing. They know better. Your mother should have brought you to us _years_ ago. An event like this needn't have happened otherwise. And now the boy is involved as well… What a mess…" She didn't seem to be talking to me anymore. "What would be a fitting punishment for him, I wonder?" She looked back at me and said, "The goddess has already punished you enough, I'll wager, but the boy is another issue entirely. You've forcibly opened yourselves up to powers of nature that you don't understand in a very dangerous and uncontrolled way—completely outside of ritual and tradition—you especially. You'll both need to be instructed—there's no way around it… But there must also be _censure_ , especially where the boy is concerned… Ignorance is no excuse. A life has been taken. There must be retribution for that."

I would soon come to know the ways of witches were not always pleasant.

"They're just little'uns!" Grandpop argued at the dinner table that night. "You can't hold 'em accountable for something like that! They didn't know—"

"Ignorance is no excuse," Aunt Sage said again. "A life has been taken—an extremely powerful McCarthy at that—"

"She weren't no McCarthy!" the old man protested vehemently, pounding his hardy fist on the table. "She died a true Hartly! Brave! She sacrificed her life for that little girl, and she'd do it again if she could! That makes her a Hartly in every way that counts as far as I'm concerned!"

Gus growled in apparent agreement.

It was around that point that I finally started crying. For grumpy old Grandpop to admit something like that, he had to have meant it, even if he was always squabbling at Mama for some reason or another. Grandpop was very serious about the name Hartly; whenever he invoked the family name, you knew he meant business. To be called a true Hartly was the highest compliment one could be afforded from Pop-pop. And for him to call Mama a Hartly instead of the usual derogatory 'Witch' just broke my heart.

"I w-w-wish she coulda heard you say that," I sobbed, shoulders shuddering as Tony held me, quietly rubbing my back as I cried. "She woulda been so ha-happy… I w-w-wish…"

"Me too, kid," Grandpop seemed to be trying very hard to keep a straight face, but the watery sheen of his hooded eyes gave him away. "Me too."

My cries seemed to unsettle everyone in the little country kitchen, Tony holding me tighter as if that would make it stop. Even Gus came over and put his head in my lap with a pitiful whine. It was the first time I had cried since Mama had gone. And for a while, the tragic sounds and hiccupping sobs were the only things that filled the silence, everyone else too lost in their own grief and distress to say a word, comforting or otherwise.

It was Aunt Sage who finally shattered the quiet with a sigh. "Fine. I suppose it's a possibility that I might pull some strings with the covens, but heed my words, old man…" she said ominously, "without guidance…" her eyes flicked to Tony pointedly, "something like this _will_ happen again."

"W-what are you looking at me for?" the boy cried, unnerved at the icy blue stare aimed at him. "I didn't do nothin' wrong!"

"Keep quiet!" Grandpop snapped, making Tony flinch hard enough to jar me in his arms.

"And here we arrive at the crux of the problem…" Aunt Sage said dryly, narrowing her eyes at my cousin. "What say you, boy? Now that you've had a taste of true power, would you be so willingly inclined to give it all up for good? To never lay hands upon another spell book? To deny magic entirely for the rest of your miserable days on this backwater ranch?"

Tony exuded a very heavy silence, every muscle in his body going tense behind me as he glared at the woman.

She merely smiled in satisfaction. "Predictable." She turned to regard Farmer Hartly knowingly and jerked her chin at the two of us. "The girl has learned her lesson, but the boy has learned absolutely _nothing_. In time, he will try something again. And now that they've opened themselves up, it's only a matter of time until something nasty gets ahold of one—or both of them. Evil and vengeful spirts, cults, rogue warepacks, and—goddess forbid the _vampires_ ever find out about this—" She shifted uncomfortably at the thought, shaking her head at our incredulous looks. "The world is a much bigger and unknown place than any of you can possibly realize, and you've just painted big red targets on your backs for anything supernatural in a hundred mile radius. I suppose we should only be thankful you called me when you did, before anything _else_ could get here first…" Her face was intense when she told the old man meaningfully, "I'll need to take the children."

"The hell you will, you witch—"

"Indeed. I _am_ a witch," Aunt Sage interrupted, then pointed to us, "and so are they. Very young, very _powerful_ , very _impressionable_ witches. We've not seen this amount of raw talent for an age. Perhaps not since the inquisition, and if something else gets to them first—"

"You expect me to believe you've been around since—"

"I've been alive for almost _five hundred years_ , Mr. Hartly," she interjected again forcefully, standing halfway from her seat and leaning towards the old man with one hand placed firmly on the round kitchen table, " _please_ don't interrupt me when I am speaking—it makes me very _angry_." The shadows in the room rippled threateningly, making Gus whine and Fluffy on the counter gave a low yowl. "I don't believe you want to see me when I throw a tantrum. The last one was legendary enough to be written down in your history books."

"If you—then—then Casey was—" he stammered.

" _Cassia_ ," Aunt Sage corrected the name with a strange accent, different from her normal Scottish drawl, and sat down again, "would have been somewhere around her millennium this year, if I'm not mistaken." She scoffed. " _A millennium witch_. Such a waste. She stopped practicing—wanted to live a normal life, have a couple of brats, and _die_ … Well, she certainly got her wish." She let out a bitter huff, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed over her chest, and shook her head, "But I digress. This is irrelevant. Do you see now?" She gestured at us flippantly. "These children have been submerged in a world that is separate from your own. And now they must be educated with the skills to survive in it. Especially now, with the vampires acting all secretive—they're plotting something, and it can't be good—it never is. They've got it out for our kind. This couldn't have happened at a worse time, and at my age, believing in coincidence is like believing in _Santa Clause_." She cast a derisive look at our stricken faces. "Sorry, kids. Not real."

Yes. Aunt Sage ruined Christmas for Tony and me forever that night.

That was also the night we packed our bags and said goodbye to the Texas ranch forever.

We were going with Aunt Sage to England.

* * *

That was sixteen years ago.

Tonight I'm getting off of a plane at Fort Worth Airport and staring at everything like a tourist. Even though this is the city I was born in, I feel like a foreigner. I haven't been back to the states since I was six. It feels weird but the muggy weather is awesome. I hate the cold. And even if the air is suffocating and smoggy, I'll take hot and dry over wet and cold any day.

I manage to find my way to the baggage claim—miraculously. Normally I can't find my way out of a paper bag; Aunt Sage says I have the sense of direction of a midge-fly. It's the sound of one very unhappy kitty that beckons me through the crowded airport. Fluffy gets air sick. He won't forgive me for weeks after this, I just know it—grumpy old thing. He's still kicking after all these years. And, strangely enough, I don't think he's going anywhere. He appears to be stubbornly attached to life, and goes wherever I go. I try not to think about it too much. Question things too deeply and you end up finding out things you never wanted to know. Fluffy is one of these things I don't question. It's better that way for both of us, I think.

"Calm down, just quiet down now," I ease to him gently as I can manage while dodging busy passersby. Fluffy's yammering is drawing unpleasant stares that I wilt away from timidly. "I'll let you out as soon as we get out of this place, okay?"

Unfortunately, right as we're moving through people traffic, I get a call. Unfortunately, it's not on my mobile phone. Cursing under my breath as the familiar pressure builds in my head, I nearly bowl people over to get to the exit, nearly going flying a few times, especially after tumbling past a rather solid, tall, blond stranger who refused to dodge my warpath. When I finally get out of the airport and manage to find a secluded space, my head feels like it's going to explode. I fumble through my abnormally large purse, fighting not to let out a pained whimper as my head gives a particularly nasty throb, and finally get ahold of my hand mirror. Flipping it open hurriedly, I cast a hand over it with a few hastily murmured words and sigh with relief when a familiar face appears in the reflective surface—only, it's not mine.

"I see you made it there in one piece," the reflection remarks derisively.

The headache subsides slowly, but the lack of building pressure is a palpable respite from the mounting migraine that can cause nose bleeds if ignored long enough. "Hello, Auntie. Have I mentioned that I absolutely _hate it_ when you do this? I do have a phone, you know."

"Ugh," she sniffs in disgust. "Awful contraptions. I don't know how you people deal with all these new mechanical contraptions and so-called 'modern conveniences' cropping up all over the place. Don't get me started on Facebook—I rue the day you and that blasted cousin of yours signed me up for that demonstration for human degradation."

"That seems a fairly apt assessment for Facebook, I have to admit…" I agree, "but, Auntie, please just call me next time? For my sanity?"

"I had to see that you were well," she insists. "You know I don't trust those flying tin cans—all packed in like sardines and hurtling through the air at several hundred miles per hour—it's not natural—"

"I love you too, Auntie."

"That's a bit presumptuous of you, don't you think?" she huffs. "I'm only concerned as to your whereabouts, _dear_ , seeing as you should know damn well the trials are coming up on the solstice, and I've agreed to be your much anticipated sponsor. There are expectations here that are driving me up the ruddy walls—"

"Politics don't suit you at all…" I demure softly in sympathy.

Her face contorts and her cheeks go red and I can practically see the steam blowing out of her ears as she finally lets out a howl of frustration, tugging on her hair, pacing back and forth out of the frame of my mirror, "OHH, it's that Agnes! She's been taunting me for _decades_ , going on about how I've never managed to ferry an apprentice through the trials, and I've _had it_ , I tell you! I've bloody well had enough!" She threw her hands manically as she spoke. "If it weren't against the Covenant, I'd murder each and every last one of those uppity crones with my bare hands! I'd bathe in their blood like a ruddy vampire! I'd wring their skinny chicken necks, and beat them to death with their own limbs! Oh, I'd love to see their faces when—"

She goes on like this for another solid five minutes. When she gets on one of her tirades, it's best just to look sympathetic, and nod in agreement whenever she pauses for breath. She means every word she says and it's best not to anger her further. Tony and I learned this the hard way.

"Anthony is just sweet as can be, and makes up for the rest with enthusiasm—he takes after me, you know—but we both know he's not going to make the cut," she goes on fervently. "It has to be you. You're my only hope of ever saving any amount of face in this coven." She glares at me intensely with her aqua eyes burning, "You find out what that old man wants and you get your little arse back here before the solstice, Missy. I don't care if you have to _swim_ , just do it fast."

"I'll try, Auntie," I murmur dryly.

"No, _no_ —there will be no trying, only _doing_ ," she commands. "Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

"Yes, Auntie," I sigh.

"Once more, with feeling," she conducts.

I suck in a deep breath and recite, " _Yes, Auntie. Whatever you please, Auntie. I am at your disposal, Auntie._ "

"That's better." She grins—more of a barring of teeth, really—and trills, "Bye-bye now! Give the old man a kick for me, will you?"

I close my eyes and let out a deep sigh as the image in the mirror fades back to my own reflection. I luxuriate in a moment of peace for a moment, but when I open my eyes again my face is no longer the only reflection in the mirror. For the briefest of moments, I almost believe it's Aunt Sage playing a trick on me (as she is oft to do) but I am sorely mistaken.

"She sounds like a bitch," a deceptively smooth, pleasant voice comes from behind me. I drop the mirror in utter shock, shattering at my feet when I whirl around to face the presence of the tall blond stranger I knocked into while tearing out of the airport. He's so tall that he _looms_ over my own diminutive height, and his blue eyes burn into me intensely, making my throat close up uncomfortably. I have to quell down an instinctive urge to bolt.

When I grasp my wits again, I manage to choke out, "No. Worse. She's a witch."

"I gathered that," he agrees. His voice is soft, but I can sense the danger in it, sharp as razor blades. His eyes trace my figure slowly from top to bottom, ending up on my feet, and he points out, "You're bleeding."

"Right," I say hastily, observing the cuts from the broken mirror in a detached sort of way with another sigh. "Thanks for that. Nine years of bad luck—that should be an adventure."

He lets out a curiously mischievous chuckle that doesn't sit well with me and remarks, "That's a bright way of looking at it. I take it you're superstitious…" He eyes the growling black cat still unhappily shut in his carrier. "Interesting choice in pets."

"He's not a pet," I correct him indolently, kneeling over the shattered pieces of glass scattered around and embedded in my sandaled feet, holding my hands over them and muttering a few words. Instantly, the shards mold themselves back together as if time is reversing itself—a neat little charm I learned a few years ago. Pity it doesn't work on enchanted objects. Straightening, I ask bluntly, "Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Vampire?"

"You're a very powerful witch," he notes just as bluntly, brows raised in appreciation.

An abrupt and very unladylike snort escapes me despite my wariness of the situation, and I end up snickering at him impertinently, shaking my head. "You mustn't've met many witches then." I can't help grinning somewhat manically at him with another hysterical giggle. The pressure from the trials must be getting to me. I'm slowly losing it. "Haaa…fuck my life—and Auntie too."

"Maybe later," the vampire grins back. "For now, might I have the pleasure of knowing your name?"

Mimicking his archaic speech—I was used to it from Aunt Sage and several of the other coven members—I quip back in a perfect English accent, "Tell me yours, and I shall tell you mine."

"It appears the lady knows how to negotiate," he laughs, playing along. I'm hoping he continues to humor me. For now, the best course of action is to appear non-threatening.

"Names are powerful things. My Auntie would rip me a new one if she knew I was considering telling mine to a vamp. Not without something in return, of course. Law of equal sacrifice—witchery 101."

"There's a school for witches?" he questions with amusement. "Any relation to Harry Potter?"

"Pfft. You're funny. I like you," I laugh. "Really, I do. And I'd love to stay and chat, but, unfortunately, at the moment I'm running late for a prior engagement…" I trail off when I meet his intense eyes, and sigh at the realization, "I'm not going anywhere, am I."

"You're an intelligent one," he showers me with false praise.

I let out a long sigh, and pick up my bags, muttering dismally, "Honestly, I don't know how I get myself into these situations. Why does it always have to be _vampires_?" I eye said vampire expectantly. "Well? Where are we going?"

He arches a brow at me. "Really? No shooting lightning out of your fingers or summoning a plague of locusts?"

"In public?" I balk at him, gesturing to the throngs of people getting out of the airport, meeting families, loading luggage onto busses. "Do you really think that's a good idea? I mean, you'd be surprised what people can pass off as their minds playing tricks on them, but I think lightning and locusts might be a little over the top…"

"Well, what would you suggest?" he places an icy hand firmly on my shoulder—unnatural in the hot muggy night, sending an unpleasant shiver down my spine—steering me skillfully through the droves of people. He grabs up my extra duffle as if it weighs nothing. How thoughtful.

I wince slightly at the thought. "You know, I'd really rather not think about it unless I have to. Not all of us are like Auntie. I don't exactly like to make a habit out of beating people to death with their own limbs when they piss me off." I add as an afterthought, "It's very immature when you think about it." Then I shrug. "After all, you seem like a perfectly reasonable vampire. I'm sure you have an equally reasonable purpose for abducting me."

"Abduction is such an _ugly_ word," he says in my ear as we approach a stately limousine, sending another nasty shiver down my spine. "Think of it as an unscheduled detour."

"Right, well, since I like you, I feel it's only fair I should warn you…" I precaution him as I watch him throw my luggage unceremoniously into the trunk, "in the unfortunate case that this 'detour' should turn sour—I think you should run."

"Me?" he looks up from the trunk with blatant amusement, " _I_ should run?"

I nod very solemnly, holding Fluffy's carrier as the vampire slams the trunk shut, ominously giving me the premonition of someone slamming shut the lid of a coffin with my name on it. "I have instinctive defenses in place that don't react well in…tense situations. Trust me when I say you won't find it pleasant. I'd really rather avoid any unpleasantness all together, to be honest."

"Then we are of the same mind." He grins, gesturing me into the vehicle ahead of him. "That's what this little side trip is all about."

"I don't suppose you could be any vaguer, could you?" I seethe quietly, sliding into the limo with vast discontent.

"And I don't suppose you could shut that pretty mouth before I shut it for you," he returns in the same pleasant tone he's been using all night.

I merely settle him with a disgusted look as he seats himself across from me with a smug smirk and scoot as far away from him as I can. I let Fluffy out of his carrier and mentally implore him to shed as much as felinely possible on the plush leather seats. Instead he settles in my lap and stares at me with flat orange orbs; he exudes stern disapproval.

My eye twitching in frustration, I snap, "Stop looking at me like that—it's not my fault." Even more disapproval. "It's not! You want someone to blame? Take a look at the great hulking blond beast over there!"

The vampire sits very still as the cat sets the strong feline glare upon him next, and hesitates for a moment—clearly contemplating the sanity (or lack thereof) in seriously engaging a _cat_ in conversation—before shrugging. "In my defense, if you had not slammed into me with all the force of a raging bull, I might not have taken notice of you at all, and we might have avoided this situation entirely. Conversely, if you cannot accept the blame yourself, you may also blame your raging bitch of an aunt."

I blink at him for a moment before nodding. "That's acceptable." I go back to talking to my cat like he's a person (and as far as I'm concerned, he is), "There you have it, Fluffy. It's all Auntie's fault."

The vampire lets out a surprised bark of laughter. " _Fluffy_? You actually named your cat—"

I'm quick to cover said feline's ears, and abruptly interject with, " _Shh_! He's extremely sensitive about his name. I was six, okay? And I didn't know how to tell girl parts from boy parts…"

"You are either a very cruel mistress, or an utterly insane one." He spreads his arms out languidly over the back of his seat. He's very attractive, honestly—oozing sex appeal from every miniscule pour, I'll wager—but he uses it like a weapon. They all do. "I haven't figured out which it is yet. Either way, I suppose it doesn't matter. You are endlessly entertaining, little witch."

"It's a distinct possibility that I have lost my mind, yes, I will agree with you there." I nod fervently. "But I'm ever so glad I still have enough mental faculties to provide you with entertainment—I do try so very hard, because I like you _so_ much. Goddess forbid you be deprived of your giggles…" He grins wider, and a slow sinking feeling assaults my insides. "You're going to drag this out, aren't you."

"Oh, yes. I think so." He doesn't even try to deny it and adds, "I like you too."

And that, friends, is the final nail in the coffin for Amity Hartly.


	2. The Family Business

**Sooo, lots of stuff happens in this chapter. Hope you've got your reading glasses on. Vaguely sexual themes in this one as well. (Okay, who am I kidding, it's True Blood. Sex is required.) All underage sailors—** ** _you have been warned_** **.**

 **Disclaimer: Not mine. Especially not the one who likes to suck on things that aren't his.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 2: THE FAMILY BUSINESS**

I'm almost relieved when my phone starts screaming.

Yes. Actual screaming. And not the bloody murder kind. No, that would have been too generous. This is more like the orgasmic bliss kind. I close my eyes slowly in utter exasperation. There can only be one plausible explanation for this. I sigh and mouth the name like a curse, " _Tony_ …"

"Are you going to answer that?" The vampire across from me can't seem to wipe the grin off of his face. "Nice ringtone, by the way."

"Thank you."

My phone's obnoxious orgasm seems to be getting more intense. _Oh YES…mnn…ooh, harder, HARDER_ —

The vampire looks like Christmas has arrived early, and I don't want him getting any strange ideas, so I plunge my hand into my oversized purse, suddenly frantic to shut the device off. This is quite possibly the worst stunt Tony has pulled yet. Well, not really, but the situation is. I'm so embarrassed my face feels like it's melting off; I'm sure it's the color of cherries by now. And it just keeps getting _louder_. Oh my—I think Tony actually _recorded_ this—

"I'm gunna to _kill_ ' _im_ ," I hiss under my breath as I search for the offensive device, my voice slipping back into a southern drawl in my distress. "No, first I'll castrate him, then make him swallow it like the little bitch he is—" I don't usually curse, but when I'm stressed, pissed, and/or around people I know, my filter shuts off. My whole arm nearly disappears into the purse before I finally find my phone—a result of the expanding charm my great-grandma Azra gifted me with last spring; I am now literally the owner of a Marry Poppins bag. I normally find it useful, but in situations like these? Not so much. " _Aha_!"

When I emerge with the offensive device, I shoot a look at the vampire, who nods at me in consent. Only then do I hit the send button—don't want to needlessly upset my captor. "What the hell do you want?"

"You sound like you're in a good mood."

"The best," I reply, staring blankly at the vampire in front of me. "The people here in Dallas are great. I even made a new friend."

Tony snorts in disbelief. "You don't have friends."

"I love you too, asshole. Nice move with the ringtone. You're in rare form lately," I speak without an ounce of inflection.

"Gotta keep sharp if I'm going to whoop your ass this solstice," he responds in kind. "I'm not letting you take this from me. It's all I've ever wanted since I was old enough to understand it."

"I know," I tell him more softly. Our relationship has suffered immensely because of Aunt Sage's meddling. Pitting us against each other. Stupid trials. "You know…we're stronger when we're together. We don't need to fight. Just because they tell us to—"

"Shut the fuck up, Am," he says just as softly, but it cuts me to the quick. I bite my lip to keep from saying something I'll regret.

"…Why are we talking, Anthony?"

"I heard She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named gave you the mirror treatment," he bounces right back to his regular bravado. "If you care about me at all, you'll tell me what she's planning."

"Tony…"

"Listen, Jinx—if you really have _any_ idea how much this means to me—and if you have any wit of sense in that silly head of yours—help me now, _tell me what_ —"

" _Tony!_ " I raise my voice, cutting him off sharply. "If I thought it would help—if I thought it would change _anything_ between us—I would've _told you_! But it won't! She does what she wants without caring about the consequences, and there's nothing either of us can do about it! That's how it's always been—so stop putting me in the middle of it! I'm so sick and tired of both of you pulling me in two different directions! I'm not playing their stupid game anymore! _Enough_!"

I'm met with dead silence after my rare outburst. Finally he grits out through his teeth, "You're right. _We_ — _don't_ — _have_ — _a choice._ It's never going to be enough. It will never be over. And if you think for a _second_ Auntie is going to let you off— _think again_." His voice is low and gravelly—inhuman sounding—and I know it's a result of his contract, the dark blood surfacing with his roused emotions; it's a rather new addition to him that makes me sick to my stomach to think about. He's changed so much. "Even _you_ are smarter than that, little cousin. Stalling and fooling around with old spell books isn't going to help you. Sooner or later, you're going to have to pick a side. You better be on the right one."

"…Don't you _dare_ threaten me Anthony Derwood," I hiss back at him stiffly. "I am not afraid of you."

" _You should be_."

The line went dead.

Silence presses down upon us until the vampire innocently prods, "Family issues?"

I shut my eyes, feeling the months of exhaustion weighing down my shoulders. "Oh, you have no idea."

Something about the words makes him grin again. "I'm here on family business as well."

"Are you?" That's surprising. "You know, it's astounding how often I find myself wishing I had no family at all. I wasn't aware vampires had them too."

"We don't think of family in the same terms as humans do."

"That's probably for the best," I remark dismally. "Human families are fucked up. And if they're not, then they're hiding something."

"What's happening on the solstice?" he suddenly demands in the same soft, agreeable tone as always, but I can hear more of the razors in it this time.

I've yet to reopen my eyes, and I mutter, "I don't want to think about what's happening on the solstice. I came here to get away from all that."

"Do I need to ask again?" His voice is velvet, dark, and dangerous.

I pin him with a dead stare. "It's witch business. Nothing to do with vampires. You won't understand."

"Humor me."

I eye him with interest. "Why do you want to know so badly if it has nothing to do with vampires?"

"I'm an incorrigible busybody," he imparts as if relinquishing a guilty secret.

I narrow my eyes at him in irritation, but it's obvious that he's not going to let the matter rest. "Fine. Do you know of the Trials?"

"The trials where we burnt several of your kind to death? Why of course. How could I forget?" he hums as if speaking of a fond memory.

"No—not the damn witch trials." I shake my head as if trying to shake away an annoying fly. "The Trials of the Triumvirate."

His brow furrows a bit in consternation. Obviously this vampire is unused to not knowing what the hell is going on. His voice finally wavers with a bit of foreboding when he demands, " _What_ Triumvirate?" He sounds like half of him doesn't really want to know the answer.

I run a hand down my face in exasperation. "If you don't already know, might we please wait until we get wherever we're going first? Because I _really_ don't want to have to explain myself twice. I hate doing that."

"Better start getting your story straight then, little witch," he concedes reluctantly, letting his burning blue-eyed gaze drift towards the tinted window. "We're here."

He's out the door so fast I don't even see him move, and before the vehicle has even come to a full stop, he's dragging me out of it by the elbow leaving me to stumble awkwardly over my feet behind him. Fluffy leaps out the door just before it slams shut in a close shave, loping into my shadow and disappearing in it. That causes the vampire a millisecond of pause, but he only shakes his head and curses, " _Witches_ …"

"You still never told me your name," I grumble, struggling to match his pace, tripping every few yards or so as we cross the stately yard to a posh-looking estate, and he appears to be hell-bent on dislocating my arm...

He also appears to have abandoned all polite social conduct and gone into what I like to call full-on-vampire-badass-mode, I grimly notice. He summarily ignores my protests as he drags me into the residence, the doors flying open in our wake. But we hardly make it another two paces of the freakishly tall vampire's wide stride before another—notably shorter—vampire appears before us, halting the blonde in his tracks.

"Eric," the newcomer greets my vampire captor genially. I instantly like his voice. I don't sense any razor blades in it, and it carries a strange lilt that I can't quite identify. It means that he's very old. Some of the older members of the coven—like great-grandma Azra—possess an accent that is very similar, if not quite identical. And not only that, you can tell from the eyes. They strike me instantly because they're the same color as mine. They look me over impartially if not without a spark of curiosity. "…Who is your companion?"

The newly dubbed Eric eyes me threateningly, and I let out a put-upon sigh, giving the other vampire a polite nod. Say what they may, but I am not stupid, nor am I suicidal. "Amity Hartly—witch. At your service."

The old vampire's brows lift up in surprise as he eyes Eric. "You caught a witch?"

I yank my elbow out of Eric's grasp with a glare and straighten my jarred outfit—a trendy, off-the-shoulder black and white zig-zag shirt with denim shorts barely visible beneath—letting out a soft sniff. "More like I came willingly. I'm not here to cause trouble. I take it you're the sheriff of this area?"

"Yes." He eyes me with polite interest. "I am Godric." His mouth quirks crookedly as he mimics my own introduction, "Vampire. At your service." He gestures towards a room at the end of the hall where the blueish light of a computer pools out—I'm guessing it's an office. "Shall we?"

"If we must…" I throw another glare at Eric for good measure, but dutifully follow after the sheriff at a thankfully more human pace. I'm still unhappy with the whole situation, but the youthful looking vampire carries with him an aura of peacefulness I've rarely encountered before. Most people harbor such urgency and vigor—like Eric, his presence larger than life and looming over all. Vampires especially possess an inherent violence and chaos about them, but not this one. The complete absence of conflict is…oddly soothing. "You're not like other vampires," I can't help but note aloud.

He cocks his head at me as he holds the door open, gesturing us on through the entrance of his office to some modern looking seating. Godric looks decidedly out of place within it all. "How do you figure that?" he wonders, clear green eyes holding me captive as he sits across from me in an armchair, somehow managing to make it look like a throne, despite his out-of-place-ness.

"I don't really know how to explain it without sounding all witchy, and new agey—which makes me look like a really huge dork, and believe me, you really don't want to see me go full on dork. It's painfully awkward." While rambling, and not really paying attention to the sounds coming out of my mouth, I try to analyze the aura further. It's never really been my area of expertise, but for some reason, vampires are easier to read for me. And while comparing the two, Eric's and Godric's side by side, something in my head just _clicks_ and I come to an abrupt realization, exclaiming suddenly, "Oh! You two are related!" I look back at Eric. "You weren't lying about the family business, huh?" At that point, Fluffy jumps out of my shadow, settling on my lap to scrutinize the new vampire critically—to his credit, Godric doesn't even flinch.

Instead he exchanges a deliberate look with Eric and nods. "I can see why you brought her to me. But I do not see that there is much cause for alarm at this time. This one is docile—peaceful even. Why detain her when she means no harm?"

Eric thumps the back of the couch where he looms behind me, opting to stand instead of sit. "Tell him the rest."

A dour expression mars my features and I sigh, "If you insist…" My eyes flick back to the older vampire and I ask, "Do _you_ know about the Trials of the Triumvirate?"

"The Triumvirate?" Godric repeats in surprise, leaning in with clear interest. "You mean to say they still exist?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure," I say. "Just try and keep that on the down-low, okay? I can get in big trouble for talking about it. You didn't hear it from me."

"You would so easily betray your own?" He frowns, as if the thought is upsetting somehow.

"Look…" I tell him softly, mentally getting ready for the speech I've been preparing, "I've recently been disillusioned to a lot of the protocols within my so-called order. I don't see it as a betrayal." I sighed, and added almost inaudibly, "They betrayed me _first_ …" More strongly, I explain, "I was inducted into the coven when I was six years old—my cousin was ten—and nobody wasted any time getting right down to business. Feelings were not spared. The whole Great Revelation thing you guys pulled on everyone really freaked people out—witches too. They were gearing up for a war to end all wars when they realized vampires were all uniting and plotting something. My cousin and I were to be the greatest assets in said war…" I shrug dismally. "Turns out, that was pretty much unnecessary, but here I am—my cousin was actually _disappointed_ when it turns out all the plotting was just you guys coming out of the coffin. Really anticlimactic after being trained your whole life for a fang-war." I stare into his eyes earnestly with a jaded glaze. "Tell you the truth, I really just want to live my life without having to worry about all that shit. I'm so done."

"I can imagine…" And from the way he says it, I actually believe him. He continues to lean in, elbows resting on his knees and hands laced together in front of him as he eyes me up and down inquisitively. "Tell me, what coven do you hail from, Miss Hartly? You strike me as familiar."

My brows lift in surprise. I've never met this vampire before, so that's strange. "McCarthy. You've had dealings with us in the past?"

To my shock, and personal awe, his face breaks into a wide smile as if he'd just struck gold, eyes shining with mirth. " _Cassia_. _That_ is who you remind me of."

My eyes go wide and I nearly jump across the coffee table in my eagerness. "Cassia? Cassia was my mother!" I return the grin wholeheartedly, a strong, intense joy encapsulating my chest. Strange though it may be, I feel as though I've met a long lost friend in this Godric. "You knew her?"

"Yes," he laughs. "We crossed paths several times during the various witch wars. Rarely did I have an encounter with her without some sort of memento to remember her by... She was quite thoughtful in that way."

The smile melts right off my face when I realize what a grave mistake I've just made. "Oh…"

"Fear not. I am not bitter in the slightest. She got as good as she gave," he reassures me quickly with a laugh, the smile not leaving his face as his eyes trace mine. It's almost as if he's seeing a whole different person before him. "We had our moments. I remember her quite fondly. We were even allies when it suited our purposes—or as close to the term as two vastly different individuals could be in our position at the time. I would not have guessed she would have children. She did not seem the type when I knew her."

"My Aunt Sage says the same thing all the time…" I reply, suddenly shy. "She says Mama went soft…"

"Sage? Is that what she goes by now?" Godric chuckled darkly. "She was and always will be a nasty piece of work, that woman… If one can even _call_ her a woman."

My face splits into a wide grin once again, and I let out a peal of laughter, shaking my head. " _You_ —I _really_ like you. I could kiss you for saying that—oh if only I could see her face—" Anyway brave enough to insult Aunt Sage without an ounce of fear is someone I admire greatly. I round on Eric, who's been oddly quiet through the whole exchange, with the same grin, "Thank you for abducting me. Your maker is wonderful." Turning back to said maker, I duly inform him, "You've just made my night."

"It is you who has made mine, Miss Hartly," he protests graciously. "I have not laughed this much in what feels like decades. What is the term they use now-a-days…a 'blast from the past,' correct?" He sits straighter, the same crooked smile playing at his lips as he declares stately, "On behalf of all the vampires of Dallas, I welcome you. You will have friends here for however long you intend to stay."

"Thank you," I respond sincerely, and with no small amount of surprise. "I'll admit, I was not expecting any sort of welcome what-so-ever when I got here—especially not from a vampire."

His smile fades a bit. "Unfortunately, Miss Hartly, that is not an uncommon sentiment. Nor is it entirely unwise…"

Sensing I've hit a sore subject and upset him in some way, I quickly make a decision that may not be 'entirely wise.' "You can call me Amity. And in fact, I think I'll take you up on that offer of friendship if you weren't just offering out of propriety. I don't have many friends, and, quite honestly, I'd love to see you again after this if you could spare the time. You could tell me stories about my mother?" I ask. "I only have a handful of actual memories…and Aunt Sage isn't a very good storyteller."

"I should imagine not," he chuckles softly, his smile returning. I like his laugh, I realize. It's understated, and modest—like the rest of him—two traits you don't often find in vampires—and it seems to come to him as a surprise each time he does it. Like he's not used to it. He laces his fingers together again and appears to come to a similar decision as mine. "I would like to see you again as well. In return for the stories, perhaps you might provide some more information on the McCarthy coven and your business here in Dallas?"

"That sounds like more than a fair exchange." I nod in agreement. "You're a shrewd businessman. I can see where your Eric gets it from." I eye the blonde leerily over my shoulder. "'Unscheduled detour' my _butt_."

He shrugs at me unrepentantly. "It seems to have had a favorable outcome. I won't hear any complaints out of you."

Godric shakes his head at his progeny good-naturedly. "'Unscheduled detour'—is _that_ what you called it? I'll have to remember that one." He rises then to his—rather diminutive—height, and holds out a hand to me. "Come, I shall escort you out. I'm sure this has all been rather inconvenient."

"Well, Eric's right. In this case, the end justifies the means." I toss the blond giant a reluctant smirk. "Let's not do it again."

"I make no promises, little witch."

Godric's hand is cold in my own when he politely helps me to my feet, but certainly not unpleasant like Eric's touch had been. Perhaps it's the knowledge that I'm not being led to my death, and maybe I'm not in the practice of letting vampires touch me at any given time, but it's actually rather nice. His peaceful aura sweeps over me like a warm tide, and washes away any inherent unease the chilly fingers evoke. I've spent more time around vampires than I care to remember, and not in the most favorable of circumstances, so that's possibly the reason I haven't noticed it before… It's hard to explain. If I had to come up with a terribly cliché metaphor, I'd say Godric is a hauntingly smooth and mysterious sonata I can't entirely make out, while Eric is a stupidly loud, catchy, and not altogether awful pop song—the kind you really want to hate, but can't help but sing along to at the top of your lungs when you're driving down the road alone in your car—a guilty pleasure. The thought makes me smile as we exit the estate.

The limousine is still there and Godric turns to Eric. "Will you see to it that she arrives at her destination safely?"

"Of course."

"No more _detours_." The corner of the ancient vampire's lip curls into a discernibly amused smirk.

Eric places a hand over his unbeating heart and gives his maker a little bow, saying something unmistakably cheeky in another language I don't understand. Godric responds in kind with a clearly exasperated shake of his head, I imagine because he's too dignified to actually roll his eyes. I've never actually seen vampires interact with each other before. It's fascinating, and bizarrely intimate in a way I can't really explain very well. I feel like there should be a documentary on these sorts of things. Now that the vampires are out of the coffin, they could put it on the discovery channel. Maybe even Animal Planet! The thought makes me giggle, and they both look at me strangely.

I shake my head. "Sorry. I see what you mean about vampire family dynamics, Eric. You have very strong bonds. I'm actually a little jealous." Frowning, and thinking of Tony, I admit, "I wish human bonds were as durable…"

"The bond must be strong to better withstand the burden of time," Godric explained solemnly. "Most come to terms with it. Some resent it for the rest of their existence. Everyone is different…" he gives me a small smile, "much the same as with human bonds."

"You're comparing religion to science," Eric is quick to protest. "There _is_ no comparison."

"Isn't there?" Godric stares at him intensely, as if the answer is written in his progeny's eyes. Eric gives him no answer, reflecting on his words in quiet contemplation. The moment is over when the old vampire turns back to me, snatching up my hand and placing a kiss upon it. "It's been a true pleasure, Miss Amity. I look forward to meeting with you again soon."

A bit dazzled—he's still holding my hand—I give him a flustered nod, shaking out of my daze and plaster on a grin. "Yes—soon. Definitely. I can't wait." Yes, because that sounds so sincere. Crap. I'm a nervous wreck. What the hell is wrong with me? He's like, sixteen. Wait no. Not sixteen. Definitely not sixteen. Damn vampires.

Whatever my particular mental affliction is, Godric thankfully doesn't appear to notice, and gifts me with another one of his smiles, giving my hand a squeeze before releasing it and stepping back. He looks at Eric then, and gives him a nod, at which point the blond giant's hand claps down on my shoulder and he steers me towards the vehicle. "Come along, little witch. You've caused enough trouble for one night."

I fix him with an incredulous look. " _Me_?! Excuse me, but I think _you're_ the troublemaker in this equation!"

"You're excused."

"You're _impossible_."

"You're too easy."

" _Ugh!_ " I shrug off his hold and march to the limousine furiously muttering to myself about fascist pigs, opening the door and slamming it closed ferociously without waiting for him. Eric exchanges a few more words with his maker before following, and settling into his previous seat across from me. I'm staring determinedly out the tinted window, my elbow on the arm rest, propping up my chin petulantly. I blow my straightened bangs out of my face with an irritated puff, trying to ignore his intense stare as the vehicle starts moving again.

He finally breaks the silence when he asks, "Where to?"

My eyes dart to him warily, and I mumble out, "56 Iron Chaise Lane."

He slides open the hatch to the driver's seat a crack without taking his eyes from me and informs the chauffeur. It's a quarter of an hour drive from the airport in Dallas, plus the added distance from Godric's house makes it even longer. I let out a sigh. This is going to be one long, awkward trip if he doesn't stop staring at me any time soon.

I experiment with the high-tech window controls that I was too tense to play with last time I was in here, and somehow manage to figure out how to get the damned thing to go down. I instantly stick my head into the car's slipstream, letting my long, kinky curly hair do what it pleases. The dry smell of vampires isn't terrible by any means, but fresh air is never a bad thing either. I try to concentrate on the rush of the air over my skin—something I've always loved, ever since I first stuck my head out of a moving car. Tony always joked that I should stick my tongue out like old Gus—

And thanks to my inattention, Eric managed to get a whole lot closer without me realizing it. He's sitting right next to me now—I only noticed he'd moved when he rested his arm on the back of my seat, dangerously encroaching on my personal space—and you'll find yourself hard pressed to discover any hot blooded female who can ignore something like _that_. I close my eyes in a prayer for strength before regarding him with as much composure as I can muster. "Yes?"

"I can't help but find you…curious. I've not encountered any witches like you before." His eyes are no less intense than they were a minute ago.

I shrug. "There are as many types of witches as there are fish in the sea, Eric. You've got your fire witches, hedge witches, voodoo priests, wiccans—my personal favorites are the sky witches—"

"What kind are you?" he interjects smoothly, but shortly.

"Well now, don't you think that's a bit of a personal question—" I start, a bit flustered.

"You don't want to play games with me, Miss Hartly." His face is suddenly very close to mine. I can smell his sea-salt ocean scent wafting off of him like a cool breeze. "Not where my maker is involved. I haven't seen him act like that in decades. What did you do to him?"

My eyes widen. "Hell, Eric, I didn't do anything to him! Magic can do a lot of things, but it can't sweet talk a vampire! I meant everything I said back there! I think your maker is wonderful!"

His hand moves to grip my shoulder, thumb brushing my collar bone lethally. "I'm going to ask you one more time. Careful now, because I will not ask again." He enunciates the words slowly and carefully, his nose barely an inch from mine. "What— _are_ —you?"

"Okay—o-okay. Now…don't do anything hasty—" His hand on my collar inches treacherously towards my neck. A warning. It goes without saying that he could snap it in an instant. "I'm…I'm a..." I suck in a sharp breath, feeling his deadly fingers caress my throat. This is the closest I've been to death in a long time, and I've let it happen. This is my fault. Swallowing thickly, I close my eyes in a wince.

"I'm a necromancer."

All at once, I'm slammed into the back of the seat by my neck, cut off from my air supply. I manage to choke out a strangled warning, "E-Er-ic— _d-don't_ —" but it's too late. A low, ominous yowling comes from the shadows in the vehicle. They move in strange, unnatural ripples before they suddenly pounce upon the vampire, quick as a viper's strike, penetrating the skin. Eric is abruptly flung unceremoniously from my person and back into the seat across from me, his arms spread eagle across the back, as if pinned there with crucifix nails.

"Oh my god, I am _so_ sorry!" I cry brokenly, massaging my sore throat as tears run down my cheeks, staring at him in horror. It's always horrifying when this happens. It...I can feel everything in him. A cold, sick feeling settles in my gut. I know that I could make him do anything if I wanted. He's furious, eyes burning, straining against the shadowy restraints, and arching against the seats when a jolt of pain surges from the unfamiliar power holding him down. "I told you—" I gasp out. "I _told_ you I had defenses in place—"

" _Release me_ ," he grits out between his teeth, fangs already out and glinting dangerously.

Trembling from my corner of the limo, knees pulled up to my chest, I stutter out, "P-promise you won't hurt me again?"

"I don't make promises I can't keep," he snarls at me.

"I didn't—I didn't mean t-to do it, Eric," I blubber out in tears, _guilt_ overcoming me, more than actual fear of an angry vampire. This is my fault. If I had control... "I'm really, r-really _sorry!_ Please don't—p-please don't hurt me, okay?"

I creep over to him warily where he still strains against the necromantic bonds attaching him to the other side of the cab, muttering fractured apologies all the while trying to come up with some kind of solution. I might know how to get him free in theory but… Oh, I hate it when this happens. I hate not being in control. _I hate it_. And the tears come out and make it a million times worse. I bite my lip savagely, attempting to get them wrangled back in, regulating my breathing, and wiping my face hurriedly as I straddle his lap. Nobody likes tears and snot all over them.

"Just…just try and relax, alright?" I tell him in what I hope is a placating tone of voice. His only reply is an angry-vampire growl, and I only hope he'll be in a more agreeable mood after he's freed. After another moment of careful thought I first go about massaging his wrists to open up the pathways, focusing on the tendons and joints. I frown when he shows no sign of cooperating with me. "That's not how you relax."

"What is this, a spa treatment?" he spits through a strained voice.

"Just _trust_ me," I sigh.

" _Never_ ," he hisses back, baring his fangs.

Growing irritated very quickly, guilt and regret drying up like puddles in a drought, I drop both my hands from their ministrations limply and put it to him frankly, "Then you are going all the way back to Godric's place—just like this—where he will find you—just like this—figure out exactly what happened, and drive back here with you—just like this—where he too will ask me to release you, and I will go about doing the same thing I'm trying to do now while _he_ _watches_." I eye him flatly. "Now, I don't know about you, or what kind of kinks you have, but that sounds like a lot of pain, humiliation, and wasted time to me. When does dawn happen around here, anyway? I'm still not sure of the hours—I've got major jet lag." I check out the window surreptitiously. "I can ask the limo guy to park it in the garage until nightfall. Then again, my pop-pop _hates_ vampires, so that might not be the best idea when you're at your most vulnerable, not to mention wide open for a stak—"

" _Fuck_ —stop talking and just _do it_ ," he groans as another jolt of pain shoots through the necromantic energy infecting his system. And now the guilt is back... I can sense the nettle-thorn energy it in his chakra pathways, wiggling like snakes sinking their fangs in; this is going to be like a live (ish?) vampire version of Operation—I can see it now. After the latest surge is over, he slumps back against the seat and retracts his fangs reluctantly. He looks away from me, which I take as a go-head gesture. Either that, or do-your-worst. When it comes to Eric, and what I currently know of his personality—which I'm getting to know very quickly—I'm thinking it's probably the latter.

With that, I start back up on his wrist again, moving up the pathway until I get to his shoulder. I've never actually done this on a vampire before. Healing is not my forte, but I have a rudimentary knowledge of the chakras and whatnot. It's easy to see that my necromantic energy has glued itself in there… (Oh my god, does this qualify as _rape?_ I didn't even think about that until now!) Now all I have to do is clear a passage to get it out… "Holy crud, Eric, how in the hell did you manage to get so clogged up? I don't understand how you manage to physically _function_ like this."

"I don't understand most of what just came out of your mouth," he says to the ceiling, eyes closed as if he's trying to pretend this isn't happening to him. He's breathing deeply to deal with the pain, breath hitching every now and then; it may not be strictly necessary for vampires, but it sure does help in painful situations. I can feel his body shudder with pain beneath me when the energy pulses. I feel so awful, even though he tried to kill me less than five minutes ago. There's probably something severely wrong with my brain. If I were smarter, I'd kick the (suspiciously oblivious) chauffeur to the curb, and park the limo out in the middle of the desert with the roof window open and listen to him scream all day until it's all over.

But nooo… No, I clearly have a death wish.

"Never mind, this one is almost clear," I tell him, concentrating on rolling my palm into the shoulder muscles. He lets out a groan at a particularly nasty jolt. "Sorry…just a little bit longer now," I murmur, and shift slightly on his lap. "The pathway runs through the chest now—do you mind if I get under your shirt? Skin on skin contact is better."

He gives the slightest of nods, and I take that as the okay, putting aside my embarrassment. This isn't about that. Come on now, you idiot, just like a band aid—and with that, I slip the front of his shirt up and over his head. Wah-hah-HOkay, okay, _not_ okay, not good, _not_ good—don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it—crap—too late—I'm already thinking about it—holy _shit what did this guy do for a living before he became a vampire_ —oh my _god_ —can you say _ripped_ —any moment now my eyes are going to fall out of my goddamned head—

"Having _fun_?" he asks, suddenly looking at me predatorily while I look at him and his chiseled physique in all its shirtless glory with poorly disguised virginal terror. Fuck.

"No," I say a little too quickly, "there is nothing fun about this situation—nothing at all. Not even a little."

"Oh?" he asks, shifting his hips just slightly. "I beg to differ…" And that's when I feel it.

I let out a small, undignified shriek and fall over backwards, ass over teakettle, on the floor of the vehicle—flailing limbs and everything—with a rather loud _thump_. Okay, that's it, now I'm _positive_ the chauffeur is glamoured. Not only that, but now Eric is positively roaring with laughter. At _me_. Well, at least now I _know_ he's in a happier mood—hold the phone—

"You're not in pain at all, are you!?" I exclaim, scrambling up and bracing myself against the opposite seat again. Gritting my teeth I snarl at him, "What the fucking _hell_ , Eric?! Stop laughing! It's not funny! What is _wrong_ with you!?"

"With _me_?" he manages to choke out between breaths of laughter. "What's wrong with _you_? You act as though you've never had a good stiff fuck before—" He breaks off slowly as I look shyly away from him without comment. And then he starts laughing even harder.

"Shut up!" I protest loudly over his mirth, shameful tears brimming in my eyes, but he's completely lost it. Eric is crying too, but they're tears of laughter and blood. Suddenly my shame turns to anger. My fury gets the best of me and I pull something that has probably gotten most people their arms ripped off for less. The slap rings out in the compartment with a heavy silence in its wake. I stare at my hand for a moment—now slick with Eric's blood tears—like it doesn't belong to me.

Finally, he remarks, "I may have deserved that. Just a little." I continue to stare at my bloody hand blankly. Bored with my silence, he asks, "Are you going to have it, or just stare at it all night?"

Numbly, I approach him again and offer him my dripping, sticky hand with a mute shake of my head. I honestly don't know what I was expecting him to do with it. Maybe stare at it like I did? But instead, he sends me another one of his smoldering looks before darting forward against the restraints and taking my delicate fingers into his mouth. My knees actually buckle and I collapse amidst his legs when I feel his clever tongue laving up and down between my digits.

There has to be something wrong with me; a vampire licking his own fluids off my fingers is somehow turning me on. And then his fangs snap back out, giving me a good nick along the side of my index finger and he's sucking it deeper and deeper into his mouth before I can snatch it back with a yelp. It feels shallow, stinging only a little, but it bleeds profusely, and he's obviously savoring it by the appreciative moan I can literally _feel_ rumble up his throat. Something soothing in his saliva makes the cut feel all tingly and wonderful, and when he finally lets it go—there is no more cut. My hand falls limply into my lap where I continue to stare at it as if it's not mine.

"You know," he says conversationally after licking his lips of any more of my clearly enjoyable donation, "there is no real difference between virgins' blood and regular blood. That's a myth."

"Huh," I manage to reply breathily, shell-shocked, and rather unwilling to think about what just happened or how it made me feel. "you learn something new every day…"

"Yours has something spicy in it. Can't put my finger on it…" he hums, as if we're having this discussion over tea. "I might actually forgive you for this tragic accident of yours if you cooperate and let me have another taste after you set me free."

"Sure." I get unsteadily, numbly, to my feet. "Why the hell not? Can't exactly hurt my chances of survival, can it?"

"If you run from me, I might even sweeten the deal," he adds in that velvet voice of his.

"I need the exercise anyway." I shrug limply, resuming my work on clearing his pathways with a mechanical sort of attention.

"Likewise." He cocks his head, watching my progress with a little too much interest. He doesn't seem to be in pain at all now. On the contrary... "Hunting hasn't been the same since the Great Revelation. Humans are all too ready to bare their necks. That's no fun at all."

"My heart bleeds for you," I tell him flatly.

He grins at me slowly. "I'm hoping another part of you will bleed for me…"

I reward him with a swat on the cheek—nothing like the slap from earlier, just a friendly reprimand. "Watch your dirty mouth."

"As I recall, you were quite enjoying my dirty mouth just a moment ago," he purrs at me, leaning closer to my neck as I reach in for his other shoulder. I firmly but gently push his face away. He grins again. "I think I like this game." He nips at my wrist, and I resist the urge to pinch his nose shut in retaliation. Really though, if I knew that all it took to make a vampire friendly was to wrap them in restraints and slap them into next week, I would've done it ages ago.

"You're almost out… Just have to extract it now—" I inform him, still working out how to actually _do that_ , but then I frown at his bloody face. "You look ghastly." He merely arches a brow, and I shake my head with a sigh, reaching for my purse and emerging from its depths with a plastic bottled water and a handkerchief with ridiculous colorful umbrellas on it. "Hold still." I then proceed to methodically wipe his face clean. Why am I acting like his goddamn mother? Because it really _is_ that bad. Vampires aren't pretty when they cry.

After taking one look at the ruined hanky, I toss it unceremoniously over my shoulder. "You owe me a new handkerchief with silly designs on it after this."

"Any particular preference?" he humors me, as I straddle his lap again, eyeing him thoughtfully as I search for an appropriate extraction point.

"Just as long as it's exceedingly stupid, I don't care. It's a quirk of mine. Long story. Don't ask."

"One handkerchief. Stupid designs. I'll take it under advisement."

Well, there's really only one way to do this—doesn't look like there's any getting out of it, unfortunately—and I'd rather not give him any more advantage over me than he already has… Weighing my options with a frown, I let out a resigned sigh. It's not exactly like it can get any worse... Decision made, I quickly take his face in my hands and—with little to no warning—seal my lips firmly over his. I may very well be a virgin, but I do happen to know a thing or two about kissing. I am a _pro_ at playing tonsil hockey. But as much as I like to brag about that, Eric has, like, a thousand-something-years of experience over me.

After the split second of surprise— _ha!_ I actually caught that!—his sculpted lips are bearing down on mine with a ferocity I've never felt before. And not the nice kind. He deftly catches my lower lip between his blunted teeth and bites down until I taste my own blood. He savors that for a moment, soothing the rupture with his magic, tingly vamp-spit, giving me a moment to gasp for air, but it's only a moment. And then he's using the stolen opportunity to plunge in with his slick tongue—which is actually what I was waiting for—tracing the roof of my mouth with a telltale, ancient rhythm that gets me thinking about…well, not his tongue.

This needs to stop before it progresses any further and I actually start to lose my head, I decide—and if Eric had any say in the matter, I certainly would have. But then I slowly move my hands from his working jaw, to gently massage his throat, subtly but insistently coaxing out the dark energy inside his pathways to move _up_ and _ouuuut_ …and…there it goes. I can tell I've gotten things moving when I feel the vampire freeze up beneath me, shuddering at the strange and unfamiliar feeling. His pathways are no longer blocked, so this should be a lot more pleasant than if I had just torn it out of him to begin with. Like running a nice warm stream through his veins as opposed to ripping out barbed wire.

I don't like to torture people. And with that thought in mind, slowly, and ever so gently, I pull back from him with my lips slightly ajar, continuing to massage the junction between his jaw and his throat to encourage him to do the same as a stream of dark energy escaped through his parted mouth and back into mine—where it belonged. The further I pulled away, the more the energy pooled out from within him until I was backing away, all the way, to my original seat. Finally, like a rubber band that was previously holding us together snapping apart, Eric's arms drop back to his side limply, and the black, smoke-like magic comes slamming back into my chest like a freight train, knocking me back, slumped in my seat.

I let out a bit of a wheeze—more than a little out of breath, for various reasons—and I mutter, "Oww… Never, _ever_ again…"

When Eric recovers, he actually looks and sounds somewhat bewildered. "Was that my _soul_ you just sucked out of me…?"

"Do you even _have_ a soul?" I wondered.

He pauses, seriously contemplating it. "I don't know."

"Well, you've definitely got _something_ knocking around in there…" I answer my own question. "It sounds like Justin Bieber on steroids—or V." I ponder briefly on that, and nod decisively, "Yeah. He's definitely on V."

"I'm honestly not sure whether to take that as a complement or an insult…" He blinks at me. "I'm not usually this confused."

"You sound conflicted," I sympathize.

"I'm uncertain whether to kill you, turn you, or fuck the living daylights out of you. None of those seems right…" He deliberates internally and voices the idle thought, "Maybe all three…? In that order?"

"I thought we were going for a run," I remind him. The car stopped in at Iron Chaise Lane a while ago. Someone really glamoured that chauffeur good.

"Ten minute head-start?" he offers generously.

I bolt from the vehicle as soon as I get my bearings back.

* * *

 **In case some of you are confused about Eric, I tried to make his personality a mixture between Book!Eric and TV!Eric. I'm a fan of both. Hope you enjoyed. I haven't written many sexy scenes before, so this is a bit of an experiment. It wasn't exactly meant to be romantic—since Eric/OC is not the main pairing, here. But something Book!Eric once said got me to thinking about how to go about approaching character development between the two. Book!Eric's maker, Appius Livius Ocella, wouldn't allow him to call him by his full name until "they'd gotten to know each other better," and he explained that there was only _one_ way to get to know Appius better... I figured the same would hold true for the progeny. Anyway, they omitted APL from the TV show because he was too explicit. So I'm going to make him Godric's maker instead for the purposes of this fic. (Just FYI, Book!Godric/Godfrey didn't make it into the TV show either due to similarly explicit reasons, although they borrowed a lot from him. HBO does not abide by child molesters. Don't get me started on Book!Eric's poor, deranged little brother...)**

 **I'm also keeping Book!Sookie's background and plot, by the way. Along with her Demon lawyer/supernatural sponsor, Mr. Cataliades. And Amelia the witch! And Dermot, Sookie's deranged, half-fey uncle! (He's my favorite).**

 **...I'm feeling terribly insecure now.**


	3. Death Warmed Over

**Alright, so, I'm not happy with this chapter. I think it jumps around too much. And some of it is just plain ridiculous.**

 **Disclaimer: Not mine. Especially not the one who is not as nice as everyone thinks he is.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 3: DEATH WARMED OVER**

Ten minutes is not a long time for a vampire.

No, I'm screwed. No two ways about it. For what feels like the first time this night I actually allow myself to feel my fear. Yes, I think it's safe to say I'm good and properly terrified. There's no way this is going to have a good ending. I'm dead. I am so, _so_ fucking dead. If I'm lucky—which I'm _not_ —I'll stay that way this time. What was it Eric said again? Kill, fuck, turn? Or turn, fuck, kill? Crap, that wasn't the order, was it? It's really important that I know these things—it makes a huge difference in the general outlook of my future, goddammit! (Or lack thereof).

Crap. Crud. Get your shit under control Amity. Positive thoughts. What are my advantages here?

Right. I know the land…which is in the middle of nowhere. The only one who will hear me scream for miles around is a feeble old man who won't be able to do a thing. POSITIVE THOUGHTS. I know the land. Me and Tony spent more time gallivanting around these parts than actually working, so that's something. First things first—

I jump head first into the old pigsty, aiming for the puddle of mud in the back. In seconds, I am unrecognizable, and smell about as appetizing as pig shit. No time for pride here. Gotta run. Where? The woods, the house, or the barn? Well, he can't come into the house since he's uninvited—natural protection against vampires. But Pop-pop is in there. I can't be glamoured, but he can. Eric will use him against me in a heartbeat. I can see it already. Can't get him involved in this. The barn is too enclosed—I'll be boxing myself in—although there is a lot of rotted wood in there. Potential weapons.

Although…I really don't want to kill Eric. Sure, he wouldn't think twice about killing me or mine, but some small, suicidally insane part of me is genuinely fond of the bloodsucker. I don't think I could live with myself, even though I've only known the bastard for one night. I'm too soft for my own good. Not to mention, if I kill Eric, I'll have a bigger problem on my hands soon afterwards by the name of Godric. And I really, _really_ like Godric. Besides sentiment, however, it was clear to me that he used to go toe to toe with my mother in her prime and even gave her a run for her money from time to time if what he said was to be believed. I was nowhere _near_ Mama's league yet. Maybe in a couple of centuries, but now? HA. Godric could smash every bone in my body in less than two seconds flat, I'll bet.

No. Killing Eric is a non-option that will set off a whole bunch of other non-options that I'll have absolutely no chance against, and it's just not going to happen. So, the barn is out. Only option left now is the woods. The good news—I know them like the back of my hand. Tony and I used to play hide and seek there all the time when we were little. I know where Pop-pop's secret fishing hole is too. I wonder if a vampire's tracking skills are like a dog's. If I swim past the pond will he still be able to track me? Or does a vampire track through more than just a sense of smell? Their hearing is good, I know that much. He can see in the dark, probably hear my blood pumping, smell me… This is not looking good.

I'm screwed. But still. I wasn't going to take it lying down.

All this took place within five minutes. In the next, still stinking of mud and pig shit, I dart off into the woods at a brusque pace. No sense in exhausting myself by sprinting. The next step is to find a big tree and haul myself up into its branches. If he's on the ground, I'll see him before he sees me. And so, keeping my back to the trunk, I pull my knees up and endeavor to wait it out. Just until dawn. If I can hold out until dawn, I'll be safe.

I keep my breathing slow and shallow as I can, willing my heartbeat to not to race like a frightened rabbit. Close my eyes. Listen. Clear my mind. Focus… What was Auntie always saying about focus…? My eyes shoot open as the answer comes to me. His aura. That horrible, wonderful, larger than life, Justin Bieber on V popstar aura. I might not be able to see in the dark, but I'll sure as hell sense him coming. A slow grin twists my mud spattered lips as a plan slowly forms in my mind.

Another quarter of an hour goes by in almost complete silence. The night critters have hidden away, sensing the disturbances in the forest. They know when a hunter enters their safe havens beneath the branches. I've borrowed one of the loose ones that was poking into my lower back and have been carefully witling it down into a point by peeling off pieces of bark with my chipped fingernails. I might not be able to kill him, but I can certainly try and wound him.

And that's exactly what I try and do when I sense the telltale pop aura stalking ever nearer. I can see the outline of his tall figure pause in the cold blue moonlight. "Come out, come out, little witch. I'm tired of waiting." My heartbeat longs to leap out of my chest, but I stubbornly keep it under control. The only way to do that is to disassociate myself from what is really going on. I'm not being stalked by a vampire. I'm watching someone who looks like me being stalked by a vampire. It's like a dream. Or a movie. None of it is real. It's not me adjusting a crudely made stake in her palm. It's not me leaping from the branches silently to nail a vampire in the head with both feet—oh _shit!_ Ow! Yeah, that hurts. It's me. _Fucking_ hell—

The world tumbles around me as I'm flipped through the air and land awkwardly in the refuse scattered clearing with an impact that jars my entire frame knocking the wind out of me. _Snap!_ Shit, there goes my wrist—goddammit—yeah, this plan failed spectacularly. Stake is gone—oh wait, there it is—HA! It's embedded in Eric's shoulder! Take that! Oh, fuck—time to run.

The tall blonde male stares at me in utter shock for a second—which is merely a raising of the brows for vampires—first at my wild appearance, then at the makeshift stake in his shoulder—connecting the dots of how it got there. I don't wait around to hear what he has to say, launching off my good arm and in the direction of the one last safe haven I know, cradling my probably broken wrist, zig zagging between the trees to give him a harder target. Wait, didn't Pop-pop only say to do that if someone was shooting at you?

Well, it seems to work on vampires too if the cursing behind me is any indication.

I don't waste any time when I get to Pop-pop's fishing hole, diving straight for the snorkel reeds. Tony and I used to make breathing sticks out of them years ago when Grandpop took us with him. He'd sit in his little boat, cursing at us for disturbing the fish, and we'd be over in the reeds having a grand old time, making contests out of who could stay submerged the longest, while the old man sat and grumped at us from afar. I instantly grab a bunch of them and—heedless of pond sludge—stick the lot of them into my mouth. I don't know how long I'm under for. A minute? Two? Three? It feels like an eternity.

And then the fucker bites into my leg.

No, not Eric.

 _Albert_.

I emerge from the water screaming bloody murder, clawing on the thing latched onto me furiously. I'm not even scared anymore, I'm just _pissed off_. God-fucking-dammit, Albert. I smack my fists upon the stubborn reptile as hard as I can, but that only makes him bite down harder and he starts to thrash, and then he begins to go into a roll—mother- _fuck_ —he's going to rip my fucking leg off—

"Let me go you overgrown-fat-ass-lizard!" I howl, still pounding my fists. Everything hurts. Everything hurts, and now I'm being dragged underwater. I swallow a lung full of pond water, choking, choking, my vision littered with little dots. I see stars and colors, and it hurts, it hurts so much—and then—quite suddenly—miraculously—the pressure is _gone_. I'm tugged out of the water, the ambitious gator's jaws are pried open, and I am witness to the glorious act of Eric the vampire flinging Albert—the six-hundred-pound monster alligator I thought Pop-pop had gotten rid of _years ago_ —over the treetops like it's nothing.

I cough up what feels like buckets of pond scum before I collapse onto my back on the bank. I'm staring at the night sky, littered with bright little pinpricks of stars, and I can't help thinking for the first time that night how beautiful it all is. I know it's probably the last sky I'll ever see. And still, all I can say is, " _Fucking fat ass lizard…_ Fuck you, Albert. Fuck…you…"

I'm so tired. I can't even move as the vampire looms over me.

I cough up more pond water, and spit it at his lovely designer boots. "Get it over with already, you bastard."

"I track you for hours in this backwater hell, and the one who finally bites you is an alligator," he states dryly. "That's just fucked up."

"Maybe you're just a shitty tracker, and a sore loser," I suggest, my voice slurring in my utter exhaustion. I try and take account of my limbs, tilting my head at an angle to get a view. "Shithead didn't get my leg, did he?" It's not a pretty sight. I let my head fall back with a snarl of frustration, "God- _fucking_ -dammit." I glare at Eric who sits on his heels beside me, examining my broken body with a frown. "This is all your fault."

"You're the one who decided to go commando on me." He shook his head chastisingly. "I just wanted to chase you down and bite you. And then we'd both be going home happy right now."

"That's not what you said _earlier_ ," I gritted out between my teeth.

"I was a little upset," he protested.

"UPSET?! A LITTLE?" I shout back, irate. "Fuck, turn, kill—kill, turn, fuck!? In god knows what order?! I _REACTED_ , OKAY?!"

"For a human, you did quite well." Alright, that shuts me up. He takes a seat by my head, and puts it in his lap. "I haven't had this much fun in years." His fingers move my sopping wet bangs out of my face with a surprising amount of gentleness. "You're a fierce warrior."

I had to let that sink in for a moment, my slow brain having to catch up. Finally, I managed to mutter, "Yer not so bad yourself…Gator-Slinger." My vision darkens, and I suddenly feel very close to passing out. I mumble out the inevitable question, "'M I dyin'?"

"Yes," comes the frank reply. A pause, and then, "But I still want a rematch." My eyes are closed, but I hear a sharp click, and then something cool and wet is placed against my lips. "Drink. You'll feel better."

"Promise?" My lips barely move at all, but freaky vampire hearing still gets the message.

The cool wet something is shoved against me again, more insistently this time. "Promise."

With that, I part my lips and let the thick, chilled, bittersweet-metallic liquid run down my throat. It feels like a firework festival in my head. Instantly, I latch on with my good arm, then with my bad one—which doesn't seem to hurt anymore—my leg straightens out—and I just feel _good_. Really, _really,_ good. Everything feels like magic, and when I open my eyes to look up at the stars again, it's like they're right _there_ in front of my face. Someone's bloody wrist is removed from my reach, but all I'm interested in reaching is the stars. The tips of my fingers can almost brush them from where I'm lying in someone's lap.

When the person behind me maneuvers me into a sitting position, I whine in protest, still reaching. "I want them—I want all the brightest ones… Mama used to tell me their names." I lean heavily against the stranger as he hauls me up, and I grasp his leather jacket desperately, "Will you tell me their names? Mama told me, but I forgot—I mustn't forget—I mustn't—" I gasp suddenly, tears building in my eyes when I whisper to the stranger in terror, "Auntie will be _angry_ with me. She's so _scary_!"

"Scarier than me?" He flashes his fangs.

"Scarier than an _army_ of pointy teeth," I tell him urgently. "She'll come for me. When I don't go back, she'll come, and then she'll kill all my new friends and take all the stars awa-a-ay," I break off into a mournful wail.

"None of that now. Your friends will be fine," the stranger assures me, scooping my legs up effortlessly and carrying me out of the woods.

"I don't want to go back," I murmur into his chest. "They want me to kill a demon."

"What manner of demon?" the strange asks without looking at me.

"The tricky kind…" I can't manage to suppress a yawn. "Tricks and traps, sticks and stones…biting words that rip into you like knives and twist you up inside…"

"Those are the worst."

"He wasn't always the worst," I explain tiredly. "But I can't fight him. I won't."

"Why don't you use your powers?" the stranger suddenly demands. "You are a warrior. Why do you not use every weapon at your disposal?"

"I can only use my power on dead things. And I'm not very good at it…" I rest my head on his shoulder. We're very high up. "That's why I like the sky witches better. They don't need to fight. The sky takes them where they need to go…" My head lolls back, and I reach for the stars again. "I want to be in the sky with Mama… Did you know I already died once?"

"Did you?" the stranger remarks with interest.

"Uh-huh. I saw the whoooole world from way up there." I point at the stars. "For a little while, I was _everything_. I was nothing, and then I was _aaall_ of it, just whoooosh—" I sweep my arm at his head. He dodges. "Up, and away… Then Mama came and told me to go back. I wanted to go with her, but she said no…she had to stay with God."

The stranger doesn't remark on that, and leaves me on a familiar porch. He then proceeds to ding-dong-ditch the doorbell and leave me there. It takes a while for the person inside to wake up and open the door, so I rest my eyes for a while. It's the stern, crotchety voice that cuts through the air like a shotgun that wakes me with a jolt. I'm much clearer headed now.

"What in the dickens—Girl? Amity? Is that _you_?!" The old man stoops and grips my arms, hauling me up. "You look like yah just crawled outta hell backwards! What in the name of high holy heck have you been into!? I was worried sick!"

I shake my head, trying to remember the night's events through hazy recall. It comes back in bits and pieces. "I think I may have tried to beat up Albert at one point…"

" _Albert_?! Albert the _gator_?!" Pop-pop claps a hand to his head and looks like he wants to start yelling again, but rethinks that for the sake of his blood pressure (or maybe his sanity). Instead, he hauls me towards the outhouse—the ranch is old, with no actual indoor plumbing; the shower house was only added in the last century or so. Grandpop fills up the old tub that me n' Tony used to take baths in together as children, and the hardy old man unceremoniously tosses me in, clothes and all. The water is chilly and I let out a yelp when I tumble in with a splash.

" _Pop-pop!_ " I cry out indignantly.

"Yer filthier than a hog on a hot summer day, Girl!" the old man persists in his gruff, gravelly voice, shoving me under the spout and pumping more cold water on top of my head, tossing me a scrubber as I shiver like a pathetic wet kitten. "I ain't talkin' to yah 'bout nothin' when you look like a daggam hog! Now, git yerself cleaned up! Or do I have to do it for you?"

"Sir, yes, Sir, Pop-pop, Sir…" I grumble out, too exhausted to argue with the ex-marine about his less than elegant tactics. He sits down on a stool by the door and leans back with his arms crossed, his creased face settled into a signature scowl. He always reminds me of a lankier, grumpier version of Sean Connery, and his face looks like it's been carved out of a mountain, tanned brown by working in the sun.

I haven't seen him in around five years, since the last time he visited Tony and I in Scarborough where we took him fishing in the North Sea—a fond memory. Tony had him convinced he'd hooked a shark, and nearly gave the old man a heart attack when he pretended to go overboard. I ended up pushing him over anyway. Pop-pop laughed at him—one of the few times I _have_ seen him laugh at something.

He's certainly not laughing now.

Eventually, I peel the ruined dress shirt over my back, heedless to nudity. Being in a witch coven for sixteen years kind of strips you of any and all sense of personal shame—not that I had much of that anyway, living out in the country all my life. Running around naked as the day you were born is practically a requirement, so Grandpop is used to it. I liked that shirt though…and I let out a long sigh as I behold the thoroughly bedraggled thing and reluctantly toss it out of the tub with a wet _slap!_ Then the rest of my sopping wet clothing hits the floor after it. With that, I get down to attempting to remove several layers of filth from my person, and try to piece together what exactly had happened.

Finally, I just put it out there. "I was playing hide-and-seek with a vampire—ended up wrestling with a gator instead."

It says a lot for the old man's capacity for bullshit that he just stares at me for a moment before looking at the ceiling and shaking his head. "Why 'm I not surprised?" He lets out a huff. "That don't explain how yer still alive. Do I even wanna know?"

"I don't really know either." I shrug. Though I have a personal suspicion that a vampire took pity on me. Stranger things have happened, right? …Right?

"Dang fanger ain't coming back, is 'e?" Pop-pop demanded heatedly.

"Well, _Albert_ certainly isn't—that's for damn sure," I decide to only provide answers I can guarantee. I distinctly remember Eric saying something about a 'rematch' so my prospects are not looking good. I lean back in the murky water and let my head fall back with a thunk. "All I know is I'm exhausted, hungry, and on top of that, I've got jetlag." I turn my head to give him a pathetic look. "I've had a very long night."

"More 'n half the shenanigans you and that cousin o'yers get into are your own dang fault. I ain't got no sympathy for you, Girl."

"But, _Pop_ - _pop_ …" I protest weakly. "The vamp caught me coming out of the airport… I didn't even _do_ nothin'," I whine, falling back into the accent of my childhood. "From there it just kinda… _escalated_." I shudder, remembering exactly what kind of escalation I'm referring to.

Pop-pop let out a long sigh. "You know I hate those vamp'r sum'bitches more 'n most, but the good lord knows yer a _magnet_ fer trouble, Amity Hartly." He shakes his head, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and makes the edict, "You're comin' to church with me on Sunday. If you got trouble with them fangers, the reverend is the guy to talk to."

"Ah, Pop-pop, _no_ …" I hurriedly try and refuse. Church is so not my thing. "I got this. Really. It was just a misunderstanding—and the guy's maker seems real good 'n decent—" Before Gramps can protest, I blurt out, "And he knew Mama too! From waaaaay back when—he says he's gunna tell me stories." I can't help but grin at the thought. "And he's the sheriff too, so it'll be nice if I can get in his good graces. They're not too crazy 'bout witches…"

"A vampire _sheriff_?" Pop-pop exclaims, a vein throbbing in his temple. Really gotta watch that blood pressure. "What's a vampire sheriff got to say about our Casey?"

"I dunno, but I wanna find out," I explain rapidly. "If that means playing hide-and-seek with his kid, I'm gunna do it, Pop-pop."

"Yer a damn fool, Girl." Pop-pop shakes his head at her again. Then he persists, "I still think you should come with me on Sunday. If the vamps have got a sheriff, the reverend needs to know 'bout it."

I furrow my brow at him. "What's the reverend got to do with it? This is vampires, Pop-pop. Ain't no one normal got any business messin' with vampires—it's just not safe. _I_ barely got out alive tonight, and if your reverend knows what's good for 'im—"

"Girl, you got a lotta nerve tellin' me what's safe 'n what's not!" he cuts me off. "Like you said—you near got yerself _killed_ out there tonight! I ain't loosin' another one o' _my_ kids to them dirty bloodsuckers. So help me God, Amity Hartly, you are coming with me to see the reverend this Sunday, and I am not going to hear another word of objection from you, ya hear me?"

For a moment, the only sound in the bath house is the sound of the murky water in the tub with me. And then I point out quietly, and ever so gently, "Pop-pop…that church you go to is one o'those vampire-hatin'-churches, right…? Call 'em 'demons of the night' n' all that, right…?" My lower lip wobbles a bit as he nods in confirmation. "Well…Pop-pop, you ever wonder what all them good folks over at yer vampire-hatin'-church are gunna think of _witches_?"

The old man's eyes widen slightly at the thought, but then he shakes his head hurriedly. "Yeah, well—yer like your Mama, ain't'cha? You come back here 'cause you wanna put all that business behind yah, right? Yer"—he spends a good moment trying to find the right words—"yer _reformed_ , ain't'cha?"

"Oh, _Pop_ - _pop_ …" I eye him with despair, shaking my head slowly. "No…" I sigh, and try to explain as carefully and delicately as I can. "Mama was never…'reformed.' You can't just…snap back. It's not like that." At his falling features, I reassure him in cajoling tones, "It's not like what yer thinkin'—nothing _bad_. I still believe in God. I just…think of it—erm—that is to say, ' _him_ ,' in a different light—that's all." I try and scrounge up a smile, but it turns out a little wobbly. "All religions are like that. It's just different ways of seein' God." Since he appears to be listening very intently, I tentatively point out, "Every witch has a different way of seeing God too. I see, er… _him_ in everything; the earth, the trees, the sky, you, me…" I hesitate, before adding, "…even vampires."

Pop-pop lets that sink in for a second eyeing me unreadably before shaking his head at me again. "Yer too kind-hearted for your own good, Girl. Your vampires are gunna see it too, and yer gunna end up just like your uncle Lex." He scowls. "I know they murdered my boys. Ain't no other explanation fer what happened that night." His eyes burn at me determinedly. "I ain't gonna let those monsters murder my girl."

I cast him a watery smile. "Don't you worry 'bout me, Pop-pop. I'm a big girl now. I've taken on my fair share of vampires in the past—and much worse. Believe me, there are _much_ worse things than vampires out there." My smile turns sympathetic. "I wouldn't tell your reverend that though. Sounds to me like he's digging his nose into enough problems as it is. This isn't a world you wanna get into unless you got no other choice."

"Like you and Tony…" He sighs deeply, taking the truth of my words for what it is. "I know not everything is black and white. I'm old and tired, and fought in enough wars to understand that…" He eyes me with a heavy frown. "I reckon yer probably right about the reverend. Ain't no good can come of stirring up more trouble than there oughta be…" His eyes harden as he lays down the ultimatum, "But if you come bringing that vampire sheriff 'round here, we're gunna have us a little talk, him and me. Man to Fang."

"Oh, Pop-pop," I gasp. "You can't—I mean you _can't_ say anything offensive. I'm serious. He looks like a kid, but this guy is _old_. I can tell. You know what that means?" I explain hurriedly, "The older the vampire, the stronger the vampire. Don't forget that. And don't go mouthin' off to 'em. Hell, I don't even know if I could take 'im if it came down to a fight."

"I never said nothin' 'bout mouthin' off," he protests. "It's just a talk—a man talk. You know. With men."

"And a vampire who could have more than a thousand years on you!" I eject, splashing my hands in the water agitatedly. "And a _very_ nice one at that! He's the nicest vampire I ever met! He didn't even threaten to kill me _once_!"

"Oh, yeah, 'cause that's a great way to judge someone's character!" He protests.

I raise a finger in the air to argue, but slowly lower it back down and concede, "…Point. I guess my judgement is a little skewed after all this time. You gotta lower your expectations a little if you wanna survive in my world." I let out a sigh. "Okay. You can have your talk—but I gotta be there! No way I'm gonna let you dig yer own grave, old man."

"And I'm not about to let _my_ grandkid become some vamp's chew toy." he insists.

"Agreed." I nod, and he nods back.

It appears we've come to an accord.

* * *

The next morning, I'm out in the barn, surveying the damage.

The farm isn't exactly what it used to be when I was a kid. It's full of problems and disrepair. Ever since Mama died, and Aunt Sage took Tony and me, the place has declined. There's no more animals left—the fields aren't tilled; there's just not enough people to maintain it. And gramps sure isn't gonna hire anyone—he's retired. And he sure as _hell_ isn't going to sell the property to those leasers. This farm is over a hundred years old! It's been in the Hartly family for generations.

I've got some good ideas though. There are lots of rituals that can be performed for prosperous harvests. I know some spells that can fix up the repairs and protections… I noticed Mama had them put in place… They've weakened extensively, but it says a lot about her prowess as a witch that they would last so long after her death. She really was amazing.

Shaking my head, I meander over towards the old loft—our version of 'home base' when Tony and I were kids. Part of the ladder is collapsed, and I murmur some ancient words, waving both hands like a conductor. It's a more extensive version of the 'fix-it' spell that I used to fix my hand mirror—very useful—and, like watching time reverse itself, the rotten splinters fly back into place, revitalizing into the sturdy ladder I remember from my girlhood. With that, I haul myself up into the loft, making little repairs as I go, so as not to collapse the structure entirely. They hey is damp and mildewy, and I let out a sigh. This is going to be a lot of work.

Fluffy jumps out of my shadow as I sit cross-legged in front of an ancient looking trunk, and I smile at him. "Happy to be home, little lion? This place used to be your kingdom, once upon a time."

He merely eyes me with an unreadable feline stare, paying no attention to the familiarity or lack thereof within any of his surroundings.

I let out another sigh, shaking my head. Remember when I said Fluffy is one of those things I don't question? Well, I don't question it because I pretty much already know what it is without really thinking about it too deeply. I try not to acknowledge it, at any rate. But I suppose I need to put it behind me somehow… Smiling sadly to myself and the effigy of the old black cat, I murmur, "You died a long time ago, didn't you."

The phantom cocks its head.

"I guess I've been stupid, still treating you like a cat after all this time. I was just lying to myself so that I didn't have to feel so alone all the time…" I huff out a little laugh, shaking my head at myself. A normal cat would never have lived as long as 'Fluffy,' had. I am under no illusions now. Perhaps Tony and I _had_ resurrected my beloved pet cat that night—as my mother resurrected me in turn—but that didn't make him immune to the passage of time. A cat is still a cat, after all, and _this_ …this is no longer a cat. "You're just a physical manifestation of my power now, aren't you? An extension of my reach…" I pause, stretching out to stroke his whiskery cheek with a finger. "You're just my Shadow…" And when my fingers reach him, the image ripples…and sinks back into the dark outline at my side.

For some reason, in the blazing hot heat of the Texas summer…I feel cold, and so very alone.

Suppressing a shiver, I sigh, remembering something I read once about a time when a child must put away childish things… Or was it the other way around? I can never remember. Conceits all fall away slowly, lies I tell myself for comfort, things I use to bolster myself up—though they're not many, they still keep me from seeing things clearly. I take a key that hangs from a frayed ribbon reverently from around my neck—given to me after Mama's funeral all those years ago—and leisurely put it to the deceptively rusty looking padlock on the ancient chest in front of me.

The chest has an expanding charm too—something Tony and I didn't notice back when we were kids. Magic has a way of being understated to those not of the craft—overlooked—even when it is so very obvious. In this chest is compiled, quite possibly, all of Mama's magical works. Her grimoires are written upon the skins of her vanquished foes; a custom adopted from the _fair folk_ of all things… I shudder. Though I dislike them immensely—Tony had once been kidnapped by fay and never been right since—I figure it's probably a prudent idea to check in with the local fairy courts. If I can work up a rapport, things will go better for me here. Besides, I hear the North American fay are nowhere _near_ as capricious as the traditional Seelie and Unseelie courts back home. Perhaps even some arrangements can be worked out for the ranch…

The hopes distract me as I force myself to crack open one of the spell books. I close it again instantly with a cloud of dust, my face drawn and growing pale. Not even fluttery hope can distract me from _that_ painful looking diagram. Nope. Nope, nope, nope. I knew it. I can't do this. I close my eyes and tilt my face towards the celling, praying for strength. Necromancy was not my _choice_. It has more to do with my line than anything else, I think. Mama was one, Aunt Sage is one, and so were all of their other sisters that no one ever really talks about. Great-grandma Azra is a sky witch though. That gave me hope for a while, but no dice.

Every witch has something they are known for—an affinity, you could say. Astral-projection, spirit manipulation, potions, you name it, there's a witch for it. Technically, a sky witch could learn some necromancy, and a potions witch could learn from an astral-projections witch, but they'll never really be _fantastic_ at it. I know some charms—every witch does—and some tricks (more than a few, actually), I know my herbs and rituals like the back of my hand, and you'd be surprised what the power of sheer determination can accomplish, but I will never, _ever_ be anything more than a subpar mockery of those who call those subjects their _affinity_. That's why I laughed when Eric called me a powerful witch. And I let out another rather unladylike snort as I vaguely recall something he said about being a _warrior_.

An _affinity_ is something you are either born into, or thrust into by traumatic magical anomalies. So with that in mind, you could say I was born to necromancy _twice_. There was, of course, my original birth, and then the second, after I died. I was _reborn_ from death. I was thoroughly _bathed_ in it before Mama came and told me to go back. I still don't entirely understand what happened. It's like a half-forgotten dream. Sometimes I can even convince myself that it didn't happen, but that's only for a little while. I still get the dreams sometimes—like falling into the insurmountably vast void of space, disintegrating, becoming a part of it, losing everything that makes me _me_ in favor of being _all of it_. It's a terrifying and seductive feeling—death.

I both long for and abhor it.

My feelings are tumultuous, twisting, and they confuse me, frighten me, on the best of days when it comes to beholding my affinity. And so it is that I am staring at the contents of Mama's chest for several hours before I finally break down and crack open another book. I let out a profuse sigh of relief when it turns out to be a _much_ safer volume—not even necromantic in the slightest! Yes, actually, this is the one I was looking for to begin with. In between the yellowed, choppy, foe-hide pages, are a list of all Mama's residences in the last…hell, who even knows how long she was alive? Aunt Sage said somewhere around a millennium, but nobody really knows for sure, not even (and maybe even _especially_ ) her own little sister.

I flip through the pages with interest, feeling my lips tilting up in a delighted grin while reading Mama's tilted, spidery—but oh so familiar—handwriting, reading her words in my head and almost hearing her voice. Her drawings are fantastic as well. One is of a tall, twisting tower of questionable constructional integrity with crows or ravens circling around the top. I can just imagine her at the top, mixing potions of nefarious purposes while it bubbles over out of a huge black cauldron, or locking princesses up there… I can't imagine her eating children though. I think that's mostly just a myth. Probably. I hope.

There's another diagram of her construction of a treehouse. No, literally. A tree that is also a house. It appears my Mama was a Keebler elf at one point. As you can probably imagine, witches homes are quite…erm…quite different. I once had a sea witch friend whose house was underwater, great-grandma Azra has a floating castle which usually hangs out somewhere over Bristol, and I know of a conjurer who lives in a vacuum of hammerspace—now _that_ is cool—he can disappear and reappear at will. Aunt Sage lives in…well, I really don't like to talk about it. Tony lives there with her, but I bounce around from place to place. Great-grandma Azra is really accommodating, along with most members of our coven. They're not exactly friends, but…well…it's complicated.

It's a bit of a rite-of-passage that when an accomplished witch strikes out on his or her own, they establish themselves their own unique dwelling. It's traditional that the home reflects the dweller's aspect and or personality in its construction, but it's not mandatory. Several witches I know just plonk down in some tawdry flat and expand the inside with charms and whatnot. As for me, I think it's important to settle in some place where you really _feel_ at home…where you feel safe, warm, and have clear, simple, yet functional places for both work, and rest. For me, it's this barn, this loft, where Tony and I used to play as children, rolling around in the soft hay, and pretending to be treasure hunters.

I spend the entire day fixing it up with magic and protection spells. Once I get the temperature regulation down (I almost forgot about it) I add some expansion charms so I can build upward and add in some more lofts and windows. I end up with a very open, warm space that I'm really quite happy with. My bedroom is in one of the uppermost lofts—slanted roof ceilings with skylights and a queen-sized bed pushed up under a big casement window with wooden doors that swing outward. Mama's book is really helpful, containing spells I've never heard of before. Even Pop-pop is impressed when he walks in and I wave down at him from a plank bridge I've set up between hanging lofts.

"S'pose I don't need to call that contractor no more…" he muses, looking up from far below.

"It still needs some work, and I haven't finished reading Mama's grimoire yet, but I'll keep adding onto it whenever I think of somethin'." I smile. "I'll start workin' on the farm house tomorrow. It just needs simple fixes, far as I can tell. That's easy peasy."

Grandpop looks around in wonderment, and when he looks back at me, I think I see a glimmer of something that looks very much like pride in his eye. He slaps my shoulder heartily, with a good-natured shake, and remarks that, "maybe it ain't such a bad thing, havin' a couple of witches in the family. Yer one of the good ones, Kid."

Those words slap a smile on my face for the rest of the day.

Next step—cleaning.

I set up a speaker attached to my mp3 player, put it on my favorite playlist, and get to sweeping. Normally, I hate cleaning. I'm a naturally messy, cluttery person. And though the possibility of moving in more fresh hay for the dirt floor has its appeal, the nasty, damp, mildew smell has to go. I hate cleaning—it takes me forever—but there comes a point in one's life where it's necessary. The music makes it a bit more bearable though, helping me move mechanically through the task without having to think about it too much. Plus, I get to dance and be silly.

" _Take me! I'm alive—never was a girl with a wicked mind, but every-thing looks better…when the sun goes do-own,"_ I sing along happily, not even trying to stay in tune, swaying to the beat and swinging my broom. I haven't had time to relax or unwind for what feels like the longest time, and it feels good just to do something fun and stupid for once. " _I had everything—opportunities for eternity—and I could belong to the ni-i-ight…_ Hmm, I'd bet money the singer from Pretty Reckless is a fangbanger."

I shrug, and continue singing along anyway. The song is oddly relatable somehow.

" _Taste me! Drink my soul, show me all the things that I shouldn't know, and there's a blue moon on the ri-i-ise…_ " I hum quietly, frowning, and slowing in my sweeping a bit when I feel an uncomfortable prickling feeling at the back of my neck. " _—your eyes, your eyes…I—can—see—in your eyes, your eyes…eve—ry—thing—in your eyes, your eyes…"_ I slowly stop singing, and turn to regard a particularly familiar set of eyes watching me intently. "Oh. Hi there. I didn't even notice the sun go down." Maybe it's stupid, but I look out the window, just to make sure, then laugh at myself.

None other than Godric, the ancient vampire, stands at the entrance of my humble abode. He has a curious look on his face as he observes me and my surroundings, but mostly me, I notice. Then he remarks, "Your accent is southern tonight."

I blink. "Oh! Yeah. It's easy to slip back, 'cause of being 'round Pop-pop. Sorry—"

"No need for apologies," he interjects smoothly. "You sound lovely, Miss Amity."

I remember that I've been singing horribly out of tune, and can't help but laugh, a warm blush touching my cheeks. Shaking my head at him, I tease back, "You must be growing a bit deaf in your old age."

His lips quirk into a crooked smile, and he moves as if to take a step forward, but freezes between the (thankfully no longer crooked) barn doors as if meeting an invisible barrier. "This is your home?" he asks, with some surprise.

"I suppose the magic vampire invite thing proves it," I grin and a shrug. "It's not much, but it's simple, and I like it."

"You live in a barn," he states casually with a very good poker face.

"The joke is not lost on me," I laugh, and gesture him in with a wave of my hand. "It's nicer on the inside. Come on in and take a look if you'd like." I set down my broom and shut off the loud, admittedly tasteless music as he wanders in. He looks up, taking in the magically extended ceiling and interconnecting hanging lofts with curious appraisal.

"I don't know if I'm going to put in electricity or not," I explain, just to make conversation. "Magic works just as well for lighting, and I'm not comfortable with lighting candles in here with all the wood and hay—bad combination, that. And I don't need anything like television… I don't watch the news—seems to me they never have much nice to say 'bout nothing."

"That is true, especially as of late…" he agrees in a solemn tone.

"Anti-vampire stuff?" I ask delicately. He nods. "Well…while there may be a lotta bad things about vampires, there are a lotta bad things about humans too. The pretty vampire lady on the TV is right about that much, at least. I get the weird feeling that she doesn't really believe a lot of what she says though…there just seems to be something _scripted_ about all of it."

"That's likely true as well." His smile is halfhearted. After a pause, he approaches and says, "I feel I owe you an apology, Miss Amity, for the actions of my progeny yesterday night. It was my wish that he see you to your destination unharmed…"

"Well…" I murmur uncertainly. "Technically, he _did_ get me here safely… It was a huge misunderstanding. Ya see, I'm pretty sure he thought I was manipulating you—since I'm a necromancer—and I think he attacked me out of love for you. So I don't really blame him for that. As for what happened next…" I sigh, eyeing him sheepishly with the admission, "I don't exactly have the best control over my powers… When a vampire attacks me, they don't react well, and…erm…well…" My face flushes scarlet.

"My child returned to my home the other night with a most interesting story, Miss Amity…" Godric began, staring back at me quizzically. "One involving an alligator and his intended meal wrestling with him."

"Well, you know what they say about the truth being stranger than fiction…ahaha…" I return with a nervous laugh. "I'm still not entirely sure how I survived that, to be honest."

"Eric fed you his blood," he explains gravely.

"Ah… I suspected it might've been something like that." I cringe slightly, rubbing the back of my neck. "Where is Eric, by the way? I suppose I should probably thank him." Though I'd really rather not.

"He is being punished," Godric confirms grimly. "The blood is sacred, and it was his own actions that led you to that point—he is old enough to know better. I came here tonight to apologize on his behalf…and also bare a warning."

"A warning?" I echo.

"He intends to hunt you."

"I kinda figured…" I nod weakly, wilting somewhat at the daunting thought, the word 'rematch' bouncing around in my head.

"You do not wish for his attentions?" The old vampire tilts his head at me.

I shake my head. "Don't see as I have much of a choice now."

He frowns. "I could command him not to pursue you if you like…"

"But you haven't yet," I point out. "Which makes me think you don't exactly like giving him commands unless you absolutely have to. Right?" At his heavy silence, I get the feeling that this incident has caused some amount of tension between the two vampires. "I know a maker's progeny has to follow their orders—though I don't know to what extent that goes. I wouldn't want to mess up anything between you two, so don't worry about me. I'll be fine, Godric. I got myself into this mess. I'll get myself out."

He eyes me appraisingly with a very careful onceover. "You are very brave, and kind, Miss Amity."

"Or just stupid." I offer him a weak grin. "I've been through worse before though. I'll be okay."

"Have you ever consumed a vampire's blood before?" he asks suddenly.

I shake my head no.

"Then you must also take into account that a vampire can easily track and find any human that has taken his blood," he explained.

"Oh dear…" I frown with a dawning sort of horror. "That's going to make this much more difficult isn't it…?"

"That depends," Godric mused as if thinking aloud. "Do you plan to submit to him? Or outlast him? Because you certainly cannot fight him. You said yourself that your powers are volatile and uncontrollable."

"Well, I don't know—" I break off. "I mean, I found my mother's spell books—"

"Did you?" he wonders. "Would you say that you are a quick study, Miss Amity? Because I do not anticipate keeping my child in sliver for another night."

I cringe at the thought. "No, that doesn't seem right…"

He looks over me very inquisitively for a moment before asking, "Do you wish to hear my advice?"

I frown heavily. "If you're going to tell me to 'submit' then you can shove your advice—"

"That is not what I was going to tell you. And in fact, I would be disappointed if you did," he cuts in. "If what Eric tells me is to be believed, then you are a relentless fighter, Miss Amity. You fought him, and that is why he will hunt you." After a moment where he stares at me intensely, as if seeing something no one else can, he adds with a laugh, "You are amazing." And for the first time, I really see him grin.

I stare back at him, completely dazzled if not a bit dumbfounded. "Th-thank you?"

"This situation you have found yourself in with Eric reminds me much of the encounters I had with Cassia in the past. A most intriguing parallel…" he tells me. "I wished to turn her into one of my children. Obviously," he laughs again, "I was unsuccessful. She escaped me time and time again…" He paused as if lost in memories hidden in my face, then candidly puts forth the proposal, "I offer you advice in explaining how she accomplished this so you might use it to your advantage against my Eric."

I blink at him slowly. "Erm…I don't mean to seem rude, Godric, but _why_ _on earth_ would you do that?"

"That is…a difficult question to answer," he murmurs contemplatively, pacing slowly around the room. "Perhaps it is because in chasing Cassia, I was taught a very valuable lesson, and I wish to impart that same lesson on my son…" His eyes meet mine again and he adds with a dangerously mischievous smirk that makes my knees go mysteriously wobbly, "…or perhaps it is because I wish to hunt you instead at my own leisure, without the intrusion of a competitor."

"You know…" I remark wanly, "I don't think I'd mind all too much if you were the one hunting me, to be honest."

"Pray that I do not." He's suddenly inches from me. He was across the room just a second ago. I didn't even see him move. "I am not known for playing games, Miss Amity."

My breath seems to be stuck in my throat when I ask, "W-what are you known for, then?"

He smiles grimly, and answers me with one word.

" _Death_."

* * *

 **Please give me reviews!**

 **Who do you guys like better? Eric or Godric?**


	4. All Along the Watchtower

**So, here marks the start of our short Godric + Cassia arc. It's a little weird, since this chapter is entirely in Human!Godric's POV. *gasp* Never seen that one before. But hopefully it's not boring, and gives you all a little more insight on these two lovely people!**

 ** _JUST TO BE CLEAR:_ In the start of this chapter, Godric is around ten, eleven, twelve-ish. At the end, he's around seventeen, give or take. Back then they didn't really put much stock into actual years after making it through the first one. Illiteracy is rampant, especially among the common people. I'm thinking like, maybe around 2% actually know how to read. Basic math is probably more common, but only finger math. No actual symbols or anything more complicated than addition and subtraction. Maybe multiplication and division. Maybe. Possibly.**

 **Okay rant over. You get the picture. Hopefully. If you read that. I know most of you didn't. JERKS. (Just kidding. I love you guys too.)**

 **Disclaimer: Not mine. Especially not the one who may or may not be in character.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 4: ALL ALONG THE WATCHTOWER**

He first met her when he was still human.

He remembers the crooked tower drawn in the grimoire—like a faded dream. It loomed over the forest by their village; every time you looked up, there it was. As children, they would challenge each other to approach the crumbling structure and leave offerings. It was a test of courage. A rite of passage. An ancient _druidess_ lived there, it was said. Those brave enough from all over the neighboring villages would come and offer tribute for her to oversee ceremonies, cure their ills, and administer blessings of good fortune upon them. Men came to her in hopes that she would point them towards destinies filled with riches and worth… But it was said that she possessed a _terrible_ wrath if angered.

There were several nights when a dreadful wailing reached the little village from the tower, and all the while the cawing of the gore crows that constantly circled the turret could be heard screeching over it all… He imagined he might have suffered nightmares filled with those screams when he was a child, huddled with all his brothers and sisters in their tiny home. As it was, he distinctly remembers being terrified when it was his turn to take the druid her offering. The fibers from the rope dug into his palm roughly as he dragged a protesting goat behind him—his family's best. A mysterious remedy for his tiny sister's rattling cough was left outside their doorstep the morning previous—unsolicited. They thought she would not last the night, but upon burning the mixture of herbs in their home, the girl made a miraculous recovery. His mother worried for inciting the druidess' ire if not provided with compensation for her generosity.

And so it fell upon him, the eldest son—in lieu of his departed father—to placate the witch.

He didn't know how he'd lost hold of the rope, as he was holding it so tightly. Something spooked the goat and it bolted, the tether ripping out of his hand so quick it left a burn. Desperate, he chased after the senseless animal in earnest. He could _not_ lose this goat. So intent was he on his quarry that he stumbled over unseen dips and roots in the unsteady trail—if one could call it a trail at all—scuffing his knees and even his chin somehow. The creature led him deeper and deeper into the wood, and by the time he reached the clearing it came to rest in, his person was littered with small cuts and abrasions, and he was decidedly out of patience. It wasn't the first time he'd been giving the run around by one of his family's animals, and it certainly wouldn't be the last, but he did _not_ have time for this. He was supposed to be meeting with the other men of his village by noon time where he would be taught to use a sword—

He froze as he ducked around a limb of a fir tree to find he was not alone in the clearing. And not just any clearing…

A hooded figure stood poised near the edge of a small, tilled garden, filled with growing things he couldn't name, the crooked tower looming above them ominously. The goat he'd been chasing lay peacefully at the figure's feet as if it had been summoned there. As he lingered, joints locked up, unsure of what move would be safe to make, he watched in slow building horror as the figure reached a pale hand to gently pull back the hood. When it fell to her shoulders, Godric beheld the most beautiful woman he thought he'd ever seen. He'd heard terrible tales about deformities and grotesque features, but evidently the spreaders of those lies had never seen the druidess without her veil. She had the clearest, flawless skin, with bright eyes the color of the sea, and long, tumbling curls as red as blood. Shadows played under her defined cheekbones and her pink lips remained unsmiling as she stared back at him unreadably.

When she spoke, her voice was muted, and without inflection, and she turned from him with the soft-spoken command, "Come, Boy."

She did not stop to see if he followed. And though he was more than a little reluctant to trail after her into the twisted tower, he did not dare disobey. She led him wordlessly through a shadowed corridor, where he could swear he saw some of them move independently out of the corner of his eye. When she pushed open a heavy wooden door, he almost couldn't believe his eyes when he beheld what lay on the other side of it. Contrary to his expectations, it wasn't entrails, or strung up corpses on hooks, nor anything remotely suggested at by the exterior of the building. Flights of stairs spiraled off in every direction imaginable, twisting, turning, and sometimes even running upside-down along the ceiling.

"Were do they all lead to…?" he couldn't help but wonder aloud.

The witch watched him gaze around in awe for a few more moments before answering quietly with a curious tilt to her shapely lips. "No place. Everywhere. Here and there." She turned abruptly after a thoughtful pause and headed to a cluttered round table in the middle of the room—clearing it methodically of jars containing questionable contents, animal bones, dried herbs, and some items he could give no name to—and gesturing him towards a rickety stool at its edge. "Sit, Boy."

Hesitantly, he followed her instruction. He was used to taking orders from women, oddly enough, because of his mother. His father had not returned from a trip to a neighboring village five winters ago, leaving them to figure out what to do in the aftermath of his mysterious demise. His mother was a strong willed widow with seven children whom she expected to heed her every beck and call—and they did—or else… In contrast, this was a woman you obeyed even if she didn't bark at you, even without the looming threat of a beating. Correction—you didn't _want_ her to have to bark at you because she was terrifying enough when she was quiet, and he didn't even want to _imagine_ what she'd do if he angered her. For now she seemed…peaceful. He didn't want to do anything to upset that delicate equilibrium, because he knew how quickly the moods of women could change.

But the druidess merely nodded approvingly, turned her back on him, and stooped to remove a kettle of something from the low hearth using her thick, voluminous sleeve as a buffer between the hot iron and her skin. She poured the steaming, murky tea into a carved wooden cup before him and instructed, "Drink, Boy."

He wanted to decline—wary of accepting anything from this woman—but surely nothing that smelled this divine and aromatic could be poisonous? Weighing the consequences of refusal, and chancing a glance at the beautiful woman's expectant face, he wordlessly blew on the steaming concoction before once again following instructions. It tasted every bit as wonderful as how it smelled, he remembered, and the expression on his face made the woman smile. She turned again to quickly fetch a clean rag and a bowl of something like a salve, and he didn't flinch away when she began to dab at his many cuts and scrapes, smiling serenely at him all the while. It was surreal.

"You are a good boy," she said when she finally spoke, gently taking up his raw, rope-burnt hand. "A good son. You listen well to your poor mother, yes?"

"Y-yes, my lady," he managed to stammer out bravely, still unsure of what to call her.

"Cassia," she said quietly, as if reading his mind, cupping his dirtied hand in her palm, and covering the burnt part with her other. Her hands were very warm when he heard her whisper some complicated sounding words he couldn't make out, and suddenly his hand was very warm too. He pulled it back quickly, as the feeling was shocking, and was stunned to see his hand completely free of defects—as if nothing had happened to it at all. Eyes wide, they searched the woman's face for an explanation, but she merely smiled. "A good boy needs good hands…"

"Magic…?" he asked faintly, a fluttering feeling of excitement building in his chest.

She nodded without looking at him, turned away to rummage through a wall of drawers that extended far beyond either of their heads. He didn't know what all of them contained, but she removed several dried herbs and gathered them in her sleeve before placing the hearty sum in a drawstring bag, and pressing it into his hands insistently. "For the little one." She pointed to the goblet of tea she'd given him with a delicately slim finger, and instructed, "Do not burn them next time."

His eyes widened, but he did not question how she knew. Still he protested, "W-we have no more to give—"

"You will come again, Boy." She patted his cheek softly, much to his bewilderment, and coaxed him back to his feet. She guided him silently but adamantly out then, one hand resting softly on his shoulder, the other gently pushing on his back. When she led him through the door, she smiled and pushed his mop of hair out of his eyes as if to better behold them, then she smiled at him wider. Afterwards, she mussed his hair as his father always used to do, said, "Come back soon," and shut the door in his face.

It was the strangest encounter he'd ever had.

His sister's condition improved vastly in a mere matter of days. A week later, she was running through the streets again, laughing and playing with the other children as if she'd never been sick at all. His mother worried again about compensation, and worried even more when he finally told her of what had occurred up at the tower. Her typically ruddy complexion went pallid as a corpse, and she warned him of the consequences of defying a witch. He must return, as he'd been bidden, or surely the rest of them would suffer some terrible catastrophe. The sorceress might even bring her wrath down upon the entire village.

And so it was that he reluctantly returned…

The next time he approached the tower, she was there again, standing as if she'd been expecting him. He was quickly tugged inside with no little amount of enthusiasm from the woman and steered up one of the staircases into a vast, cylindrical chamber lined with rows upon rows of books. Those that did not sit upon shelves were stacked up on tables, and sat in spiraling towers upon the floor, tucked away in nooks in the walls… He'd never seen so many books and scrolls in his life, nor did he have any idea what one would do with all of them. And when she set him down at a desk and cracked one open in front of him, looking at him expectantly, anticipating… _something_ , he merely stared back at her wide-eyed as if she'd just gifted him with a splinter and a bit of lint, then asked him to go fight sea monsters with them naked.

The characters and runes inscribed in the pages could have been squished insects for all he knew of them.

The witch's smile slowly faded as that realization sunk in. Her eyes flashed fiercely for a moment then and he briefly feared that she'd become angry with him. But then she patted down his hair and declared resolutely, "You will learn."

"I will…?" he wondered doubtfully.

"I will teach you, Boy." She said so with such conviction, but he could do nothing but stare at her in utter disbelief.

Finally, he asked, "Why?"

She never answered his question.

The seasons to follow passed swiftly and his days were filled with new and enticingly strange things. Just as she had promised, he quickly learned to read her peculiar druidic texts, and at least three other scripts she kept in her archive besides. His mother was shocked when she caught him excitedly showing his siblings the strange written language, tracing the characters in the sand. So too did others notice the oddities he often brought back from the tower. They began to send requests with him, and the druidess was happy to oblige, he noted.

He thought she seemed lonely, bored maybe, and even a little sad at times. But she always smiled at him when he came to visit her. He was back and forth, most of the time—running things to the village, and toting their offerings of thanks back to her with a sheepish sort of bemusement. He'd never volunteered for the position, but somehow he had become everyone's liaison to the druidess. A go-between, of sorts. He found it tiresome at times, but Cassia—as she insisted he call her, while she insisted on calling him Boy—genuinely seemed to enjoy helping people. And she fully expected him to help her do it.

It was little things at first. Just tiny errands she asked him to complete, helping her fetch ingredients for certain concoctions she would brew… Before he knew it, he found himself remembering the names of certain herbs, certain remedies, and later, even the stars. He started thinking of questions about things he'd never questioned before—why was the sky blue? Why did the sun set, and the moon change shape? Where do all the insects go in winter?—and if there was a question, Cassia usually had an answer for him. He started neglecting his training with the other warriors and even slacking on his chores every now and then to run off and ask questions. But everyone in the village valued his connection to the druidess too much to scold him for it.

More seasons passed and she was there in the form of a bird when he proudly obtained his warrior markings with the other boys his age. She seemed perplexed over them later when he told her he would not be coming to see her as often, due to new responsibilities that came with the marks. She was sullen for the rest of his visit, and barked orders at him stiffly as she worked to prepare some ritual or other. It stormed ferociously for a week straight after that.

If she was trying to send a message, he certainly received it loud and clear…

She was oddly distant and frustrated with him for some time afterwards. She was not one for many words and appeared to have a difficult time expressing herself properly. And then, one day, she sat him down and explained in as many words as he had ever heard from her at one time, "We all possess a… _gate_ ," she pressed both hands over her chest, miming doors opening and closing, "inside of us." She then proceeded to elaborate, "The wider the gate, the more magic you can let in." She gestured vaguely. "Most gates are shut up tight—nothing can get through, unless you _force_ it open…" She quickly added, "But don't do that, you'll die."

Fascinated by the rare topic, he quickly asked, "Is that how _you_ use magic? Like that time you fixed my hand?"

She nodded. "Healing is not my kind of magic. My magic deals in…" she trailed off with a slight shrug. "I still try though. I want to be good."

"You're amazing," he corrected her instantly, and she beamed at him for the first time in weeks.

Shaking her head, she told him, "You're a sweet boy. Your mother is very lucky."

He thought his mother just wanted him to marry and get out of her house, but he didn't tell Cassia that. His curiosity for the topic at hand was too great to let his mind linger on drearier topics. That same fluttery excitement that had filled him when he first saw Cassia perform a miracle filled him again when he asked her, "What does my 'gate' look like?"

Her sea-blue eyes took on a keener glint and fixed on him intently. She seemed to have been trying to find a way to get to this part of the conversation, but appeared puzzled on how to explain. Finally she murmured, "There is a tiny crack in the doors—a spark. I sensed it about you the moment I first laid eyes upon you." Her voice was hushed as she told him, "You do not see the world as others do."

"I don't know what you mean…" he confessed reticently, admittedly perplexed.

She made a wide sweep with her hand towards the twisting staircases all around them. "Others may see them, but they do not question where they lead." She passed a hand in front of her face next, and for a moment, he thought he saw a hideous visage slip into place before flickering back to her naturally lovely appearance. "Others do not see me as I am—only the curse. But you, sweet Boy," she patted his cheek fondly, "you can see beyond that which others might find strange, or unusual… You see things as they truly are." She paused, letting her hand fall back to her lap, trailing off with a sigh, "It is a gift, yet sometimes it is…"

He reflected upon her words for several long moments, but picked up on one thing with a mounting concern. "You are _cursed_?" he asked her urgently.

She nodded solemnly, and at his beseeching eyes, she lowered hers in defeat. "Not all witches are virtuous… I try, and yet…" She pursed her lips as she tried to find the words, then began, "We fight those dark things that exist in this world, however…we fight each other as well. We are our greatest enemies." Then she whispered so quietly he almost didn't hear her, "Sister against sister…mother against daughter… We fight in an endless war."

He shook his head, uncomprehending. He had heard of a great army spreading across the lands, conquering those as they went, but surely no war would reach them here in this isolated place. And since he knew nothing of any wars in recent memory—his knowledge of history had many holes—he found he could offer no contribution. Instead, he asked about what most concerned him, "What curse ails you, Lady Cassia?"

She smiled sadly, a mere twitch of her lips. "My appearance repulses all but you, sweet Boy." She stared down at her lap self-deprecatingly. "Some even die of fright if they stare too long… I must wear my veil if I am among the people, always."

"But you are beautiful!" he protested immediately. That anyone could find this woman anything _but_ beautiful was completely insulting.

"Perhaps I was once…" She grinned halfheartedly. "I have not heard someone say those words for many years now. It is nice to hear them once more."

"Is there not a way to remove this curse?" he speculated, his concern spilling over into his voice. "What vile manner of creature would inflict such a cruelty upon you?"

"That would be my mother…" She smiled at him again, mischief dancing in her eyes. "She is much involved in politics these days, I hear… To my knowledge, she is the only one who can lift the curse."

 _Mother against daughter_ … she had said. He thought he was beginning to understand. He shook his head, drawing the dismal conclusion, "She is envious of you. That is the reason she has done this."

"She is much more powerful than I…" Cassia tried to protest.

"But you are more beautiful, more kind and good than any other," he pointed out matter-of-factly. He believed this very strongly.

But Cassia merely sighed. "I was not always good, or kind," she explained softly. "I have done many terrible things… And so this shall be my punishment—my repentance. All will shrink away from my visage in terror, and none shall love me again." At his dismayed features she cupped his cheek with a sad smile. "Sweet Boy, I _deserve_ to be cursed."

He shook his head in denial. "If I knew magic, I would find a way to free you, Lady Cassia."

"I have been teaching you magic all along, silly Boy," she chuckled softly at his nonplused face. "Did I not promise you that I would from the moment I set down a tome before you?"

He slowly thought it over and realized she was completely right. Not only had she taught him how to read, he had been learning other minor things of arcane nature from her in a near constant stream since he had met her. Not on a scale of what she did with his hand, but did she not answer all of his questions, no matter how strange they were? Did he not assist her with her rituals and brews? Did he not know the names of all the constellations in the sky?

"If you wish to become my apprentice, you may have to leave this place with me one day," she warned him delicately. "Your home, your family, your clan…you may never see any of them again. It is not a path, nor a decision one makes lightly. I was born to this life…" she smiled at him, "but you have a choice."

Godric liked his home. It was not always an easy life, but he loved his family, and he liked defending the village where they lived. He knew one day, he would find a wife and make a family of his own if he stayed. And it would not be a bad life. Certainly not easy, nor a grand adventure, but a simple, honest life. But looking at the beautiful Cassia and the choice she offered him, he remembered something his father said to him before he died…that some opportunities are only offered once in a lifetime—and if he failed to seize them while he could, he would regret it for the rest of this life.

To her evident surprise, he had come to a decision fairly quickly. "I will be the one to end your curse, Lady Cassia. I swear it," he solemnly vowed.

She let out a dragging sigh—almost a scoff mixed with a skeptical laugh—and she shook her head at him. "Enough of this nonsense, silly Boy. There is only one way to break the curse, and that is a kiss from one with pure love in their heart—this is a cure for most curses, incidentally—however, the nature of my mother's curse makes this a virtual impossibilit—"

When he kissed her cheek, all the candles in the room went out simultaneously, leaving them both in the pressing, silent dark. In a pause where he forgot to breathe, he could have believed that he'd gone both blind and deaf. The stillness was oppressive. And then the whispering voice of Cassia rippled softly through the blackness.

" _Oh, sweet Boy, what have you done?_ "

For the life of him, he could not understand why she drove him away so adamantly that night, extracting promises from him not to come back until she came for him. He knew somehow that he had freed her from the curse, and though she had stubbornly taken it as her penance for wrongs he knew not of, she did not seem strictly angry with him for ridding her of it. No, instead of being overjoyed at her new freedom, Cassia was overcome with a terrible fear—he could see that written plainly on her face. But before she sent him away, she placed a kiss upon his brow.

"No matter what happens, we will see each other again. I will find you," she promised, her aqua eyes wild. She was beginning to scare him as her fingers dug into his shoulders in her distress. "Until then, do not breathe my name. We have never met. I do not exist. Do you understand?"

He nodded hesitantly, and opened his mouth to speak, but the door was closed before he could breathe a single word of farewell. When he finally arrived back home after trudging and tripping solemnly through the woods without Cassia's light spirit to guide him, his mother flung the door open.

"Where have you been?!" she cried.

He frowned at her. Surely she should know. Still, he told her dutifully, "I was visiting at the tower—"

He broke off at the look his mother gave him, one of mixed puzzlement and outrage. A couple of his siblings peeped at him around the riled woman's skirts curiously. His smallest sister yawned sleepily. They all looked as baffled as their mother. And then he remembered Cassia's words.

 _We have never met._

 _I do not exist._

 _Do you understand?_

And so he did…

"I apologize, Mother…" he tried to appear guilty. "I was…wandering, and I lost track of time."

"Gods preserve us," she exclaimed with exasperation. "You are _just_ like your father—creatures of the night— _both_ of you! Do you have any idea how worried I was? Get in!" She pulled on his tunic, dragging him indoors roughly. "Inside! Now! Get to bed, all of you! I don't want to hear a word of complaint out of any of you in the morning!"

That night, he tried to process and make sense of everything, but it was hopeless. The next day was worse. Everything was so surreal. The goat that had run from him and started all this business to begin with was somehow back in their barn, as if none of it had ever happened. He entertained the notion that the last five summers or so had been a dream for a few moments, but he merely had to glance up at the outline of the twisted tower that still loomed over the wood outside the village to disprove that. However, no one else could see it—which did not give credence to his own sanity.

He often feared that he'd lost his mind. And he respected Cassia's edict, so he did not dare seek her out to ease his mind. But he still knew how to brew the tea for the cough his smallest sister contracted every winter. He still knew the names of the constellations, and he knew why the moon changed shapes. He held onto these things, and continued to write symbols in the sand so that he did not fall out of practice. It was the only thing that told him it had all been real. That it hadn't been a dream.

That _she_ hadn't been a dream.

That she would keep her promise.

But then the Romans came, and none of that mattered anymore.

He no longer had time for promises. They were slaughtering their warriors like livestock, and herding off the rest of them like prisoners. His _family_ was being dragged away in irons. His smallest sister was _dead_ —ridden down for trying to run. Only he had been successful at that; he had always been the fastest of all his comrades. And he ran straight for the tower. He knew the path like the back of his hand. Cassia could help. He knew she could. She had made it storm for weeks, she had made an entire village forget her existence—she could make the soldiers leave too.

But when he arrived at the ever-so-familiar clearing…everything was gone. In place of the small garden was cracked, dead earth, piled upon with the stones of a long forgotten ruin that may or may not have once been a watchtower at one point in time. Nothing remained. He fell to his knees, lost in belated grief he didn't even know if he should feel. Everything was lost. All of it. Or maybe there was never anything there to begin with…

When they came for him, he did not resist.

* * *

 **I shouldn't say it.**

 **I really, _really_ shouldn't... Nope, can't resist—**

 **STILL A BETTER LOVE STORY THAN TWILIGHT**

 ***tee-hee* Not.**

 **On another note, somebody should ask me about druids. They're pretty interesting!**


	5. Déjà Vu

**I'm having a little too much fun writing Vamp!Death!Godric. Wa-a-ay too much fun… I seriously need to get my head checked. No. Really. This is just… I feel bad for Europe at this point. I really, _really_ do.**

 **GUEST FROM LAST CHAPTER: "I love the background on Amity's mother but I really don't want Godric to just be looking at Amity because he sees her mother instead of her. Otherwise I completely ship Godric/Amity, he needs some serious cuddles!"**

 **I totally agree with you here about not seeing Amity and seeing her mother instead. That's just lame. Not to mention kind of creepy and insulting for Am. Just keep in mind, at this point, Godric doesn't really know a thing about Amity except that she's very brave (and/or stupid). It's gonna be a slow burn. As of right now, she's little more than a curiosity to him. Certain developments will need to happen with her and Godric if anything is going to happen between them at all. For right now, I hope you enjoy learning a little bit more about Cassia, and where she stood in the big scheme of things with him. As for the cuddles… Well, you'll see :)**

 **Shout out to KarmaBites for informing me about the comics. I've got so much more material to work with now. **

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Especially not the homicidal lunatic. At least he seems to be having more fun than he did last chapter. This is also a disclaimer for the inevitable historical inaccuracy. I am so _not_ a history buff. Can anyone tell?**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 5: DÉJÀ VU**

 **335 A.D. Constantinople (now Istanbul)—400 (give or take) years later.**

Godric thought Constantine was hilarious.

He had heard about the whole 'Jesus' incident a couple centuries earlier, and thought that was hilarious too. He was sorry he missed it. Then again, when he started hearing rumors of resurrection he wondered if someone from his side hadn't brought the so-called 'Son of God' over. It was just too good. He really _was_ sorry he missed it. And so he did what he did best and followed the path of death and destruction that came in the aftermath all the way to a little city called Jerusalem. His old friends the Romans were there, doing what they do best as well. Because, let's be honest, despite all the glorious art, philosophy, and innovation their 'holy empire' birthed into the world, the one thing they were truly good for was _killing_ —oh, and let's not forget slaughtering, persecuting, and, last, but _certainly_ not least, conquering!

But Godric was good at all those things too; he had the _best_ teachers, after all.

So, Jerusalem! Godric had a _blast_ in Jerusalem. The Romans just made it too easy for him. He was getting a little tired of easy though. He figured he'd give it another century or so, and if they didn't put out, he'd go terrorize another part of the continent. But then along came _Constantine_ … Oh, Constantine. How to describe Constantine… Godric thought he was as close to a vampire as you could get without actually _being_ a vampire. He was one of those not-so-rare, but deliciously special rulers who just also happened to have the mind of a strategic, bloodthirsty lunatic. Godric wasn't sure why he advocated Christianity so much. The man clearly had his own religion complete with the dogma: _Kill anyone who stands in my way._ Whether that person happened to be family or not appeared to be a collateral damage issue which would invariably be settled _later_ —or never. A formal execution worked too.

Even centuries later, all anyone needed to do to get Godric to laugh was say the name Constantine—truly, the man was a muse to vampires _everywhere_. Or possibly the antichrist—which made it even funnier.

On a more serious note, vampires had been working their way into the Roman Empire for centuries. Godric had gotten caught up in it when he was still human. A literate, semi-educated slave often draws the wrong sort of attention. He wasn't even a hundred percent sure _where_ he learned to read at that point. Humanity all seemed like a half-forgotten dream. He wasn't exactly _bitter_ about it, but he'd certainly learned many lessons since then, and he was no longer the naïve, emotional child he had once been. Chiefly among the lessons he'd learned since the demise of his maker was _not_ to involve himself in the business of other vampires. He was already hiding out because of the maker business and he didn't want to make his presence known, but he would be a fool not to keep informed on the dealings of certain key players. Rumor had it, even when he was still a slave to his vile maker, that there were whispers a secretive group calling itself the _Authority_ crawling out of the woodwork, and he was keeping his ear to the ground. His kind were dangerous when they congregated, especially to solitaries like himself. And he had a sinking suspicion that this had the Ancients' names written all over it. His maker's legacy, perhaps?

Or perhaps it was time to become a maker himself?

The idea was initially revolting—for obvious reasons—but was becoming more and more appealing as time passed. He'd give it a few more centuries and keep a weather eye on this…'Authority.' If they, or the Ancients, approached him, he wasn't even ashamed to admit that he'd be out of there like a bat out of Hades. If he had a child to keep in check on top of it…it would just make things that much more difficult. He was still on the fence about it. His relationship with his own maker had been… _ambiguous_ at the best of times, and his failings had driven Godric up to some very high standards for progeny of his own. He'd do it differently. Take his time—never against someone's will as had been the case with his own turning. Godric would make it a gift to one who was worthy. He'd need a warrior, like himself, an intelligent strategist whom he could at least _stand_ on a personal level. That last part was going to be difficult, as he'd had trouble standing _anyone's_ company for nigh on four centuries now… In fact, he did not remember speaking to anyone since the death of his maker that he did not plan on killing directly afterwards. It was safer that way.

He'd become a very logical thinker in this time—an expert in survival—but survival very clearly demonstrates the law of _strength in numbers_. Now was the time for consolidating that strength, not taking stupid risks, and the only vampire you can trust not to turn on you—within reason, of course—is one you make for yourself…granted they're not _stupid_ enough to do it on accident, in which case, why bother to make one at all? He was really going back and forth on this… Nevertheless, survival was always his priority, before anything else.

So you could say charging gung-ho into a witch burning was a little out of his character to say the least…

He was really only sticking around because he found the sweet aroma of burning flesh and the screeching serenade of screams inspiring. He was still deliberating on whether to stay in Constantinople or take to the wilds in the north—probably for the best—when it hit him. That scent; it was subtle, yet powerful, and he recognized it from _somewhere_ … He couldn't help but gravitate towards it. Then he saw _her_ and everything fell away. Time stood still—still as his un-beating heart. And suddenly he was like a newborn child again. Centuries of control and refinement—out the window.

No sensibilities. None whatsoever. _Gone_.

And in the next moment, so was he.

Chains were breaking, entrails went flying, people were screaming bloody murder—all hell broke loose in a very quick and disorderly fashion. And all that was on his mind was one steadfast goal: _Her_. She was hanging unconscious, dirty, and shackled in a quay of sniveling, crying women to be put to the stake. How on earth she had ended up there was beyond him, but he wasn't thinking of all the details at that particular moment. Right then, he was thinking of dear old Constantine's dogma of _kill anyone who stands in my way_. It was a creed he deeply resonated with at that moment, and one he followed with gratuitous amounts of zeal.

What could he say? The man was an inspiration.

He wasn't sure if this was the event that got people to start calling him _Death_ , or if it came after. Outright mindless slaughter in the then capital of the world usually turns a few heads—and there he went breaking rule number one: _Do not draw attention to yourself_. He didn't even think, he just ripped right through, got what he wanted, and ripped back out. And just then, he did not _care_ about his rules. He truly, honestly didn't. The Authority, the Ancients, or whoever else wanted a piece of him could just damn well _get in line_. Because he had what he wanted, and anyone who tried to take it from him was going to die.

It was so nice when things were simple.

He'd rise the next night feeling like a giant idiot, but at that moment, it was worth it. He hadn't lived in the moment for centuries, and as he held the miraculous, unconscious form who'd unwittingly triggered it all, for a few moments, he felt alive again. For a few moments, it was just the wind whipping against his face, a warm, breathing body pressed against his, the delectable scent of blood and a spicy herb he couldn't identify, and the joy of the night upon them—and, briefly, the tiniest golden flutter of excitement. He got the feeling something monumental was about to happen.

But it needed to happen soon, or else the sun was going to come up and he'd miss it.

It was a good long while before he slipped out of his temporary moment of insanity and back into his right mind. And by then—brilliant strategist as he was—he'd already brought a strange human back to his resting place. They were in an abandoned cistern he'd discovered, not too far out from the city, held up by carved pillars in the pitch dark. It wasn't as defensible as he'd like, but he was sure no one had been here in a very long time. But now there was a human here… What was he thinking? Was he even thinking at all?

He was positive he was losing his mind now. He wasn't just an idiot, he was an _imbecile_. This was ludicrous. Absurd. He examined his person, covered in the habitual amount of blood and filth and was not so abhorred that he'd caused a massacre in the current hub of the world, but that he'd done it for a _human_. One measly, dirty…beautiful…beguiling…

She truly _was_ exquisite.

Now that he'd gotten the chance to come down from his keyed up nerves and self-flagellation for the idiotic move that may very well bring the Ancients swooping down upon him again, sitting poised on his heels he could examine her where he had set her down against a damp pillar. Everything about her was familiar. The hair—though dirty and tangled—the elegant shape of her face and pallor of her skin—though both were obscured with dirt and blood—the _scent_ , however—earthy, with tantalizing spices… _that_ hit him where he lived. Something about it just screamed at him that this was something he needed to remember. He had met her before…he had to have. But Godric did not _meet_ people, per say, in so much as what anyone could call a 'civilized' fashion in centuries—certainly not a fragile human.

She stirred when he ran a finger along one of those cheekbones and he instantly found himself putting distance between them in a very vampire fashion, his back directly pressed against the wall across from her. Thoroughly annoyed with himself at the very childish reaction, he wondered just what it was about this woman that made his instincts go completely berserk. They usually served him well…in that he controlled _them_ , and not the other way around. This was completely unbelievable…

He watched her intently from out of sight as the woman gave a little moan, going about the process of sitting up with the typical human slowness. When vampires rise, they're just _up_ , he noted, studying her with intrigue; there's no foggy in between stage like this woman appeared to be in—although she also appeared to have taken quite a beating, he granted. Whatever the circumstances of her previous capture, she must have put up quite the fight… He tried to picture it and stifled an amused smirk that tugged at his lips with the image conjured in his head. He wondered how much of a fight she would put up this time...

Legs splayed out by her side, the woman reached out to use the carved pillar for support and noted the remnants of the shackles on her arms, their tinkling chains still dangling from them but tapered off at the ends where he'd literally ripped her out of the procession of other women—ripping off several other limbs in the process. He could smell the enticing rawness of the chafed wrists beneath and felt the familiar ache in his gums that was always the prelude to so many sordid acts of decadence. He silently stalked her in the gloom, keeping just out of her inferior sight as she looked dreamily around the darkened cistern with slightly glazed sea-blue eyes.

Ever so slowly, he watched those eyes regain their awareness as she stared around into the dark, unseeing. He was surprised when they narrowed keenly and she demanded commandingly in the language of the times, "Who watches me from the shadows?" When he answered her with silence, she called, "Why have you brought me here? Show yourself, creature of darkness."

Did she know he was a vampire? Could she _sense_ him? Perplexed, he slowly revealed himself, _cautiously_ reentering her line of sight as his instincts urged him. Something told him he might want to listen to what they were telling him. The fine hairs on his arms were even standing up, the air charged with static, and a delectable scent he couldn't name—but it was obviously all coming from her.

What _was_ she?

When she caught sight of him, however, she froze. Now there was the reaction he was looking for. Surely now she would scream and cry as human women are oft to do when faced with a creature covered in the entrails of several other humans. Afterwards he would enjoy doing whatever he liked with her for a while, drain her, dispose of her creatively, and the entire upsetting ordeal would be forgotten in a matter of nights. Temporary insanity. All of it.

But…he did not smell her fear. The entire absence of it was almost annoying. Her eyes though—those eyes grew wide and large, shining in the darkness as she beheld him. Still no fear, he noted irritably. She seemed almost…dazed. Stunned. In awe. And he watched as she slowly rose to her feet—he noted with even more irritation—as one does when they don't want to scare small animals… He could appreciate the irony at least. The air was charged with tension, and then she spoke Gaelic words in hardly more than a whisper rippling through the dark…

" _Oh, sweet Boy, what have you done?"_

Déjà vu slammed into him as if he'd received a haymaker to the gut from one of the Ancients. Those words resonated in his head so hauntingly and deeply that even _he_ couldn't help but feel affected. He didn't know what it was about them, or where he'd heard them before—perhaps in a dream? But he no longer dreamed, how could he—but something about them triggered that response in him. The one he'd had when he first caught her scent and he'd single handedly ripped through a congregation in the capital of the world for all to see. This was dangerous, he realized. It was as if he was completely raw and stripped down to his component parts. A newborn. _Human_ , even. How did she do this? What was she? More importantly…

"Who are you?" he whispered in his native tongue.

His words seemed to hit her in exactly the same way hers had hit him. She even took a step back, slumping against the pillar behind her with a weak hand to her chest. She suddenly appeared exhausted, as if the weight of a million years were weighing down on her as she witnessed him. She responded in kind, whispery, stricken, "You do not remember me…"

It was less of a question, he realized, and more of a soundless cry of grief. And there he stood, watching her in astonishment as her eyes slowly glazed over and dripped trenches down the filth on her face. Human tears. And not for herself. Not the fearful, pathetic tears of prey. He intrinsically knew that these tears were for _him_. She wept for him silently and just stared. And when he automatically approached to better behold these inexplicable treasures, to taste them, she held her arms out as if _welcoming_ him.

He had never _ever_ in all his many years witnessed a human display such behavior. He was out of his element, and had no idea how to react to her. And when he stopped and came no closer, she came to him, hand outstretched to cup his cheek and gasp shakily at the contact. "You are so cold…so _cold_ …" Her hand was burning in contrast, scorching warmth he could almost remember sinking into his chilled flesh. It reminded him of sunlight, and her blue, blue eyes bore into his own green orbs as she beseeched, " _Who_ has taken your warmth from you, my sweet Boy?"

"He is gone…" he heard himself saying, as if in a trance, still transfixed on figuring out where he knew her eyes. "I killed him."

Her eyes suddenly flared with fury and she spoke lowly in a rasping tone, "Then he is _lucky_." Her voice hissed and echoed strangely off the walls in the cistern as she declared, "Had I found you while he was still walking this earth he would have lived an _eternity_ in torment before I finished with him…"

He stared at her quizzically as she placed her other hand on his face as well, running her thumbs gently over both his cheeks. Could a woman such as her make such fantastic claims, he wondered, actually entertaining the idea for a moment. Humans did not live for an eternity, much less possess the ability to torture an Ancient. From her appearance alone, one would not guess such a dainty creature would have the _inclination_ for such things.

"What are you?" he asked finally.

She tilted her head, eyes crinkling at the corners in a smile that wanted to weep. "I am your _Cassia_." Her hand brushed dirty, matted locks away from his face in an almost loving gesture. "And you are my sweet Boy…" her voice caught, trembling slightly on the words, "no matter what else you have become in my absence…"

"You know me…" he realized. "And I know you…" She nodded, eyes shedding more tears, but she was smiling this time. He'd never seen such a thing in over three hundred years he had walked the earth. And this time he caught the streams before they could mark more trenches down her face, capturing the tears on his fingers and savoring the taste on his tongue. "I know your taste," he recognized, and darted forward to run his nose along her collar even though she tensed. "This scent…" The name wavered in his head until it finally came into focus with her face and he whispered into her neck, " _Cassia_ …"

And he was suddenly across the room again, away from her, pressed against the wall. He knew her. She was a dream. He had convinced himself of that. Otherwise…otherwise… He stared at her and she stared back, smile fading at his stricken face. "You did not come."

Her features once more encompassed grief as they crumpled. She shook her head sadly. "I will not subject you to my excuses." She took a careful step towards him. "But if you would like an explanation I would see that you have it… It is the least I can give to you." She held out her hand.

She had already given him her tears, which he found divine. Perhaps she would have more. And though his recollection of his years as a human were faded at best, Cassia's face was like a flare in the dark. If she had an explanation, he would hear it. Hesitantly, he detached himself from the wall, and slowly approached, eying her hand warily before cautiously making contact again with the scorching warmth of her skin. He could develop a craving for it, he realized with horror. He could feel the desire to rub himself against her like a cat rising up within him and he summarily stomped it down, though the urge to bathe himself in her warmth—in her life—was nearly stifling.

He let her lead him back over to the pillar where she tugged him down to sit close beside her, stroking his matted hair back from his face so she could see his eyes, brushing the back of her hand down his cheek once more in a show of affection before she began to place it back in her lap. Without thinking about it, he snatched it up to hold it in his, making it clear there would be no other arrangement. He watched her lips almost smile at him, but there was so much sadness in her eyes when she looked at him that it would not have matched.

She squeezed his hand back and confessed, "My mother came for me before I could come for you."

He remembered a broken ruin where a tilting tower full of wonders and twisting staircases used to stand. It was hers. He used to meet her there. He ran there when… "The Romans came."

"I know," she whispered, reaching for his face again with her free hand. "Mother sent them for my fiefdom when she felt her curse break. She was very angry and chased me out…I could not go to you lest I lead her straight to you…" Her fingers traced the outline of his jaw, and she murmured almost to herself, "She would do _terrible_ things to you if she knew you were the one to free me…wicked things…"

"You were cursed…" he tried to remember, but all he knew were the smiles she gave him. He remembered her laughter.

"You saw through Mother's magic," she reminded him with a tint of pride in her voice. "You loved me when the curse assured me that no one ever would. You defied it, and _me_ ," she added with a mischievous tilt to her lips, "…with a kiss, of all silly things." She laughed at his incredulous face. "No matter how much time passes, I will never understand how a kiss can cure a curse…"

"I loved you?" The concept was foreign to him. He tried to remember, but he came up with nothing… He did not understand what his instincts were screaming at him. It made his head buzz unpleasantly, the feeling too big to wrap his head around and examine properly. Every time he tried, it slipped just out of his reach. What was worse is that he didn't even know where it came from. Was it her? Him?

"You must have," she told him quietly, wary of his contemplative expression, "else the curse would be with me still. And perhaps you and I would be in a different place now, having a very different conversation."

"I loved you when I was still human," he realized, eying her very closely. "That was hundreds of years ago."

"Yes…" she sighed, her face smoothing into a mask. "It has been long… I am not hurt that you have forgotten me."

"I loved you when I was still human—hundreds of years ago," he repeated, still giving her the same careful look, adding, "and yet you still live, looking exactly the same as you did then…and you are human. You look like a human"—he reached out a hand to trace her face and leaned in taking in the head spinning scent— "smell like a human"—he leaned further to whisper in her ear—" _taste_ like a human…" He felt a shiver run through her, and he longed to tell her exactly how much he wanted to taste her.

"I am a witch," she told him simply, and he let her gently push him away to hold his face in her hands again. "And you should have lived to be my apprentice. I should have taken you away at the first chance and explained all of this centuries ago, but now…" she sighed, and whispered, "it is forbidden… All of this, is forbidden." She leaned forward and kissed his brow. "Please forgive me, my sweet Boy."

"Forgive you?" he asked her, perplexed. She had not offended him that he knew of. In fact, he could admit that he rather liked her. A little too much.

She shook her head slowly, sadly. "I allowed this to happen. It is my fault that this cruel fate has befallen you."

He blinked at her. "I like being this way." At her incredulous face, he laughed. Perhaps he needed to convince her then. He lifted her shackled wrist first and easily hulled the cuffs from her arms with the same effort it took a human to shell a nut. "I am strong." He abruptly lifted her up into his arms effortlessly to prove it, laughing again when she let out a little squeak and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I am fast," he said, and demonstrated this by ferrying her from one island of the cistern to another, and back sitting where they were in less than two seconds. She laughed then, looking windblown, a little dizzy, but looking a little impressed as well, and he beamed at her proudly, glad that he had effectively communicated his point.

Still, he felt the need to further elaborate when he smelled the blood seeping deliciously from her chafed wrists, snatching both her hands up. Razor sharp fangs pierced his gums and she gasped, but did not pull away as he went about cleaning up the aftermath of the irons. He watched her watch him and then then the wounds as they began to slowly close up, even as he worried at them with his sweeping tongue, savoring the taste of her. "You can _heal_ …" she whispered in astonishment. "I did not know _vampires_ , of all creatures, were capable of such a feat…"

"I am capable of _many_ things," he told her matter-of-factly when he was done, admiring the unmarred flesh of her wrists and especially the lovely blue veins that he could see pulsing so marvelously through the pale, almost translucent white of her skin. He could almost frame them there—like a painting. Just for him. And with that thought, he asked her almost idly, "Are you Mine?"

"…I do not know what meaning that term has to vampires," she finally settled on saying, after watching him for a very long, wary moment. Her eyes were careful, fixated on his own, as if trying to read what thoughts lay behind them, and coming up short. "That word has power behind it that I do not understand."

"It means you will stay with me." He was suddenly very sure he didn't want her going anywhere else from now on. "I will protect you," he added. "No other may touch you." Then he reaffirmed almost authoritatively, squeezing her hands a little tighter, "You will not leave my side."

She eyed him, very seriously considering his words. She appeared to be deliberating internally over something. "I am…in a small amount of trouble at the moment," she confessed to him haltingly. "Someone wishes me dead."

"They would have burned you," he pointed out. "I did not let them."

"You killed them?" she scarcely whispered, eying the dried blood that adorned him warily.

"All of them," he elaborated. Then he smiled.

"…You're a bad boy," she murmured, her lips looking like they wanted to twitch up into a smile, but she shook her head at herself with a frown. "What would your poor mother say?"

His smile stretched into a wide grin in response.

"I should scold you…but I cannot find it in me," she finally told him with a quiet sigh. "Those men are godless, even if they call themselves Christians. None of those other women were witches, but they all had the spark… It is a cruelty to snuff out such a light." She eyed his chest softly and ran a hand down it. "Yours is so dim now…blackened by hate." She met his eyes woefully. "Who hurt you, my sweet Boy?"

He slapped her hand away quickly, unhappy with the turn of the conversation—when was the last time he had actually had a conversation?—and did not answer her. She did not reach for him again. They sat in sullen silence for a long while until his head suddenly snapped up. "The sun is rising." He looked at her again and asked quickly, needing to know, "Are you Mine?"

A strange feeling of triumph flushed through him when—hesitantly, and very unsure—she nodded.

"You will not leave?" he stipulated, a strange urgency he didn't recognize creeping into his tone.

She shook her head and held her arms out for him. Without as much hesitation this time, and with a strange sensation that felt very suspiciously like relief, he cautiously let her hold him. She rested her head on top of his where it lay in the hollow of her neck and her scent was strongest, then she methodically and gently began to remove the mats and tangles from his hair. "I will watch over you when the sun is out."

"You are mine," he said into her neck, just to confirm it.

"Yes, sweet Boy…" she whispered into his hair, her head bowed over him as he sunk deeper into her arms, pressed closer to her soft, impossibly warm form, feeling the sun's pull on him. Her voice was heavy with something that was not exactly grief. "I am your Cassia."

He did not know she trembled when she felt him die for the day. Nor did he know that she spent the entirety of it debating on whether or not it would be better to end him. But she could not, and spent the day intermittently letting her tears fall, dozing off and on, and carefully working out the many nots in his hair. He knew this last because he awoke that night without a single tangle to be spoken for to a then dozing witch and the heavenly smell of her tears practically bathing him and staining her face.

"Why do you cry?" he asked her, suddenly curious, startling the sleepy woman from her dreams.

She examined her surroundings and him as if she had momentarily forgotten where she was and whom she was with, but blinked again and smiled at him sadly. "I care for you very dearly," she said simply.

"Why?" He wanted to know why she was still here, and hadn't taken the morning's chance to flee. Surely any sane human woman should fear him, yet this one didn't. He was undecided of whether he wanted her to or not.

She debated over her answer, her chin tucked to her chest as she thought carefully. Then she explained, "Long ago, my line was cursed to only bare daughters." She swept his hair away from his eyes, admiring them thoughtfully.

"I freed you from your curse," he pointed out, "did I not?"

"Yes, sweet Boy," she whispered, still smiling her sad smile. "But this curse I speak of is not the same. It was placed on my line…" she shook her head slowly in thought, "so long ago, even my mother's mother cannot recall the age. And curses are tricky things… They grow, change, adapt, evolve, just as the curse that affects you, and all other vampires."

"We are cursed?" He sat up, listening to her attentively. His maker had taught him much of the origin of vampirism, and Lilith. To him, it sounded like a bunch of religious drivel, but he had no other explanation for what he was.

"Yes," Cassia breathed, "both your curse, and mine are older than either of us can imagine. You know of Lilith?" He nodded, gesturing for her to continue. "Along with being the first vampire, she was also one of the first witches…and a very foolish one at that. She was very adept at curses—her affinity, for all witches have one—and may have even been the one to lay the curse upon my line. But her hubris also led her to curse _herself_. No longer able to cast her hateful spells, she learned to pass on her curse to others, just as my ancestor passed on hers to all of her daughters…" She paused gravely, and explained, "A curse that has been passed on has _never_ been broken in living—" she cast him a cursory look "—or un-living memory."

He tilted his head, thoughtful of what he had just learned, but argued, "I do not feel as if I am cursed."

She gave him a wobbly smile. "I have always adored your optimism. I am glad you have not yet lost it." He gave her a bark of cynical laughter and the smile faded as she refocused. "As for your original question… Perhaps it is silly, but I always thought of you as..." she paused, and confessed, _"the son_ I would never have. I watched you grow, and laugh, and I took pride in your accomplishments as if you were my own child—" She broke off, pain lacing her tone as she relayed to him, "When I lost you…I felt…" She shook her head, and closed her eyes sorrowfully, not having the words. She was always bad with words, he suddenly remembered. She looked at him then and told him earnestly, "Forgive me, for I promised I would not burden you with my excuses, but I…" She winced, curling her fingers to her heart as if her memories pained her, then she looked at him again, eyes beseeching his for something unknown to him. "I searched for you. Day and night. It was only after a century had passed that I finally lost any hope that I might…"

"Could you not have used your magic to find me?" he wondered with a detached sort of curiosity. Things might have been very different for him if she had, he mused. He wasn't sure what to think of that yet.

She shook her head, heavy with grief. "There are tracking spells. I tried many of them, but most, if not all, require some sort of article from the one being tracked—blood, a lock of hair, a personal belonging. But when I returned to the village, it had been burnt to the ground… Nothing remained of you for me to track…" Her fingers clenched in the fabric of the burlap sack they had stuffed her into and she grated out darkly, "I managed to find the Roman contingent that took you…but you and the others had already been shipped off by slavers by that time. Even then, I tried to follow the charters, sifting through paper trails like a regular scribe… When that bore no fruit, I even humbled myself to my colleagues. I begged for help, but that was a desperate time for many of my people in Gaul." Her voice was a grim whisper as she informed him, "Several of us were hunted down and slaughtered. It was a massacre we still have not fully recovered from…"

"Vampires had infiltrated the Roman Empire by then," he felt inclined to inform her.

"Yes, smart Boy," she acknowledged grimly, "our people have hated each other since the beginning. It is likely they manipulated the Romans to remove us from power in Gaul. Vampires are very cunning, I will give you that…"

He grinned at her proudly. He wondered at the thought that she thought of him as a son. He remembered having a mother once, but not very well. He was not sure what he thought of this bit of information. He was fairly sure sons did not look at their mothers as he was looking at Cassia. Curious about something else she'd mentioned, he asked, "The Romans you tracked… I am interested in knowing what fate they were dealt."

Her warm eyes cooled at the reminder, and she suggested dryly, "Perhaps you should use your imagination, Boy…then consider the fact that whatever vile, dark imaginings you behold, the reality was a million times _worse_ , I assure you." He could see a tantalizing darkness in her eyes when she asked rhetorically, "What do you think I occupied my time with for a century when I became frustrated in my many failures to track you down?"

His grin stretched even wider. "You would not spare even one minor detail? You are cruel, Cassia."

"I was not known as Cassia the Cruel for nothing," she told him matter-of-factly. "But those days are over."

"Are they really?" he asked with some disappointment, inching nearer, eyeing the pulsing vein in her neck.

"Do not tempt me, wicked Boy," she pushed him away by his forehead good-naturedly, and proceeded to inform him. "You need a bath."

Completely thrown—he had not thought about baths in a good long time—he instantly asked, affronted, "Why?"

She stood, very businesslike and began looking for an exit, then she professed very bluntly, "Because you stink. And cleansing is very important for—" She paused thoughtfully. "Well, I suppose it would not be of much import to a vampire, would it? Hm…" She assessed him pensively. "I suppose it depends on what the vampire plans on doing with himself, no?" She cocked her head at him. "What _do_ you plan on doing with yourself?"

A good question.

"I had been thinking of heading as far north as possible—to the wilds," he admitted. "The Ancients are…displeased with me."

"Ancients?" she considered the word. " _How_ ancient?"

He shrugged. "More ancient than I—that is all the information I need to tell me to run in the opposite direction."

"My order is displeased with me as well, evidently," Cassia gestured to her prison garbs with a disgusted crinkle of her nose. "We are of the same mind…" She sighed, and reluctantly confessed, "But I must reclaim my belongings if I am to travel with you. I have several caches hidden here and there, but my staff, and my robes…these are irreplaceable."

"How did they capture you to begin with?" he wondered.

" _Templars_ ," she sneered, "—rogue members of my order. They are mercenaries. Not quite witches, no talent with magic, but a nasty affinity for the magic of others… They can force closed the gates in us which allow the essence of the universe to pass through our bodies. It is horribly painful, not to mention…" she sighed, "I will be weak for a time while my channel to the universe reopens… Reclaiming my belongings will help ease the process, although…"

"What happens if it does not reopen?" he asked, vaguely remembering something about 'gates.'

"I will age," she explained matter-of-factly, then added more quietly, "and eventually pass on…"

Not liking the sound of that, he stood up and declared, "We will retrieve these effects of yours and head north."

"That is as good a plan as any other," she nodded her agreement. "I have a cache located nearby. Let us stop there first so that I may stock up on supplies."

"Supplies?" he questioned.

"Weapons, among other things." She sent him a knowing look when he grinned. "I _did_ think that might interest you."

"Are they magic weapons?" he inquired, quickly leading her towards the exit of the cistern.

"Yes," she smiled at him mischievously and explained, "It is possible to bottle magic, if one is inclined towards caution, such as I am. Though it is a double edged sword…" She giggled, "Just imagine the mayhem one could wreak if one such as _you_ got ahold of these weapons."

"Is that a promise?"

"Oh, yes. I think so."

* * *

 **I'm going to tentatively say that I am officially out of my slump.**

 **Hope you all liked this chapter!**

 **Next time, we'll see what happens when Cassia and Godric join forces.**

 **Again, I pity Europe.**


	6. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**CHAPTER 6: SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES**

 **Several Miles Outside Constantiople**

He was pleased to find that Cassia's supply cache was located in a much securer location than his former resting place. It was a large, deep, seaside cave, hollowed out by a rushing underground spring that flowed into the sea, and better yet, it was hidden when the tide came in during the day. Not to mention the protections the witch had cast upon it. She called it a repulsion charm, working alongside several others responsible for deterring trespassers. He could _sense_ magic in the air, sinking into the very stone, carrying that spice-filled scent he always associated with her. He could hazard a guess that if a witch did not want to be found, they could easily disappear in a place like this…

The main chamber consisted of a deep, round pool—almost a small lake—from which he emerged with a soaked shake of his head, depositing a heavy, antiquated chest at her feet. It appeared he was getting that bath she mentioned after all. "Is this it?" he breathed; he didn't need to—which made diving for chests in deep, dark cave pools much easier—but it was a habit, and his sense of smell was like a second pair of eyes now.

"Yes." She smiled at him gratefully. "Thank you for getting it for me. I do not believe I could have managed it on my own whilst in this weakened state…"

He hadn't been thanked for anything in quite a long while, so he stayed silent, unsure of how to respond. But he offered her a smile in return, which seemed to be the right answer, for she reached out, slicked his sopping wet hair out of his eyes so she could see them, and nodded in satisfaction. She was always doing strange things like that.

She dragged the chest closer to her and knelt before it, running her hands along its edges pensively, and he pulled himself out of the water quickly to crouch close beside her, very interested in the contents of the box. She had promised weapons. And mayhem. Two of his favorite things. But when Cassia directed her arms in a complicated pattern and flicked her fingers commandingly at the lid of the chest, popping it wide open without even touching it, a screeching murder of crows careened out of it, flapping wildly and letting out their raucous cries before colliding into the woman's chest—and disappearing in black smoke. It happened so quickly and suddenly that it actually managed to startle him, sending him darting backwards and almost back into the water.

"Oh dear—" She turned around and righted him with a laugh. "Not to worry. Just a defense mechanism in case one of my sisters stumbled upon this little secret of mine. I had nearly forgotten about it…"

"You have sisters?" he asked, making a valiant attempt to appear unaffected by the alarming incident.

"Oh yes. Many," she sighed. "I love them all very dearly, even if all of them are nosy," she paused grimly, "…and have an unfortunate habit of trying to slaughter each other every now and again. There is no harm in taking precautions."

"A wise perspective," he agreed with arched brows. He wondered if witches employed the same brutality as vampires.

"Indeed," was all she replied. And then she proceeded to stand, lift one leg over the side of the chest, then the other, and disappear inside of it. A few moments later, in which he had not moved an inch, her head popped out and she asked, "Are you coming?"

Intrigued, he crept over and peered past her face into the cavernous depths of the chest. There was an entire _room_ down there. He watched her drop down lightly, landing on a plush, four-poster bed of feathers. Looking up at him and seeing the blatant hesitance in his face, she laughed and called up to him, "Come, Boy! 'Tis safe down here with me! Don't be a ninny!"

 _No_. No she did not.

He gave no warning before he vaulted inside the chest and deliberately landed on her, capturing her wrists and pinning them above her head while she was still winded and couldn't fight back. He then leaned very close to her face as she caught her breath and proclaimed very seriously, "I will _not_ be accused of being a _ninny_ …"

For a moment, she looked shocked, before she burst out laughing, which shocked him in turn. "Is _that_ what has you all upset?" she managed to get out between bouts of laughter. "I deeply apologize. How _terribly_ rude of me—" she broke off into more giggling.

He let go of her wrists, and sat back, still straddling her hips, so as to examine her curiously. She was not afraid of him _at all_. He wasn't sure whether to be irritated or amused. But her laughter was a contagious sound that nearly infected him. As it began to taper off, he found he wanted to hear more of it, so he proceeded to attack her ribs mercilessly with dancing fingers—as he had once done to tease his smallest sister, centuries ago, he remembered—and declared as one would a proclamation of war, "I do not accept your apology." And he did not relent even after she was writhing and crying delectable tears of laughter, pleading for him to stop. It was a rather unorthodox form of torture, but just as fun, and it would suit his purposes…for now.

He only let up when she was too exhausted to fight back, then she turned to him and enunciated weakly, "You—are— _terrible_. If I had the energy to move, you would be in _big_ trouble, wicked Boy."

"I know." he grinned.

Her head lolled back and she stared up at the opening above. The walls were, of course lined with stone tablets and texts. He distinctly remembered now where he had learned to read. He had never seen a book before he met Cassia. Little memories like this kept lighting up in his mind, and explained much. He wondered if his maker would not have taken notice of him were it not for the things Cassia had taught him. Then again, were that the case, he would likely have simply been killed instead, like so many others like him… He shook his head of such thoughts, happy for the distraction when the woman beside him spoke again.

"When we head north," she mused, "I had a thought that you might rest here during the day whilst I continue on. We will make it twice as far in half the time than if we traveled solely by night." She grinned at him. "Your 'Ancients' won't expect that, will they?"

"Rest _here_?" he repeated incredulously, taking in the tapestries on the walls, the furs upon the ground, and the soft bed beneath them. Since when was the last time he had been in a bed with the intention to rest in it? Vampires did not rest in beds. But there were no windows in the chamber, and with the lid of the trunk closed, no sunlight would reach him. In theory, it was the ideal resting place. No one would think to look for a vampire in a trunk. And while the idea of putting more distance between him and the Ancients during the daylight was more than appealing, even brilliant, in principle…was it wise to trust Cassia—a human, no matter what else she was—when he was completely vulnerable? He would be placing his existence in her hands, and even if she meant no true harm…

"Those who hunt you…" he began carefully, "they too walk in the sunlight, do they not?"

"They do…" she tentatively agreed, turning towards him again, and attempting to read his face. He gave her nothing, face sculpted into a mask he had mastered. Somehow, she still pegged him, leaning up on her elbows to scrutinize him, "…You do not trust me, sweet Boy?"

Miraculously, he found that he wanted to. He truly did. But trust was not in his nature. Trust got one killed in this world. "You have already been captured once," he reminded her in the most neutral tone he could manage. "You are vulnerable if I am not with you." Quickly, he came up with the compromise, "I will rest here during the day…but you will stay with me."

She frowned, but reclined again, relenting with a sigh, "Yes, very well. Perhaps I have been overestimating myself a bit as of late…" She turned her head towards him and observed him with new eyes. "Since when have you become the wise one?"

"One must quickly become wise if they wish to survive this long," he pointed out nonchalantly, secretly brimming with pride at her words.

"Do you remember…" she mused, an amused twist to her full lips, "when your younger brother dared you to climb the tallest tree by your house? When he accused you of cowardice for denying his fun, of course, then you had to prove him wrong…" She giggled as his face went slack with the conclusion of the memory, "You fell right into the chicken coop."

"I _did_ do that," he acknowledged with some astonishment, blown away by the sudden clarity of the memory. "You fixed my wrist when I went to visit you…" He frowned in thought. "I was a very foolish human."

"I thought you were wonderful…" she protested quietly, touching a hand to his face briefly before sitting up and walking over to a vast, carved oak cabinet. "But come now. We have much to do before the night is through, no? I did make you many promises…"

Excitement built in his chest again, and he hopped off the bed after her, eager to see what she had for him. She grabbed a satchel and placed it in his hands, opening the double doors of carved cabinet with a cloud of dust. There, lining the shelves were several vials and crystal bottles of various colored fluids. Some glowed, like the small, acid green vial she detailed as an explosive poison. "The gas it emits when the glass is broken is _quite_ lethal—I hear it melts some from the inside out," she giggled like a little girl at some memory. "I'll have to dig up the antidote for you, just in case—ooh," she exclaimed upon finding a set of round boiling flasks filled with a rosy concoction, extremely warm to the touch as she handed them off one by one for him to place in the bag, "these are my favorites. Have you ever seen someone _explode_ before? Make certain you place yourself a good distance away when you toss it—" And so on and so on, his eyes grew wider with each new weapon she placed in his bag, detailing some new horror even he hadn't dreamed up yet.

He couldn't wait to try them out.

"None of these spells are my specialty," she explained in her teacher's voice as she shrugged out of her prison clothes with her back to him—though, considering the former, he was hardly listening, "but with enough skill you can distill certain aspects until they work just as well. I am no pyromancer, but I can certainly make one run away screaming for mercy…"

He watched with quiet fascination as she dressed in a knee-length, forest-green split tunic and dark leathers. It was not often he admired the body of a mature woman, as his choice of prey usually ran much younger… Still, it made his gums ache with want, and he knew he would need to feed soon. He pondered at the convenience constantly having a human around would offer. Though hunting was his favorite thing to do, having a healthy, seemingly immortal human always available to feed from could definitely be helpful in a pinch… He wondered if she might even _let_ him— _submit_ to him without a fight. Something about it seemed almost _taboo_ in its sinful implications, and terribly alluring because of it.

She glanced at him as she tightly laced up some fine boots, and smiled, completely misinterpreting his interest. "I have no suitable garb for you at the moment. I am no enchanter, but it's possible I might throw something together on the way north when I am at full strength again. Something resistant to silver, perhaps… An intriguing thought," she mused, muttering about certain complicated combinations of enchantments under her breath.

Yes, he decided firmly that finding Cassia again in the capital of the world could be nothing but serendipity. He was not normally one to believe in such fanciful things, but it appeared that even he could be proven wrong. It could not be coincidence that just when he needed someone the most, when he was panicked enough by the wrath of the Ancients to even contemplate _procreating_ out of desperation, the universe simply dropped exactly what he required directly in his figurative lap. No, he was not yet ready to become a maker—the very thought still repulsed him at times—but _Cassia_ …

Cassia, he could work with.

* * *

 **Somewhere Around Midnight**

 **Outside an Abbey in Constantinople**

"Shall you cause the distraction, or shall I?"

He tugged the satchel of weapons abruptly from her with an affronted glare that was so blatantly forbidding and possessive that it made Cassia erupt in strangled laughter. She shook her head at him with a grin.

"I suppose that answers _that_ question, then," she giggled.

"Why _would_ you ask that question?" he remarked, still offended that she would even consider it, and continued to needle at her, "Is _that_ why you brought me here? To taunt me?"

Her shoulders still shook with laughter as she pointed out wryly, "Technically, _you_ brought _me_ here…"

"Semantics," he accused her, tugging the bag of weapons farther out of her reach protectively. "I will not hear your wordplay. You are a cruel woman."

"And _you_ are a wicked boy," she returned and quickly pecked his cheek before dropping from the roof, sliding down a colored awning and landing lightly within the shadows of the alley below where he heard her whisper, "I'll be counting on you to _prove it_ …"

That sounded like a challenge.

Once he was certain the witch was out of sight, he extracted one of the rosy flasks from the bag of weapons, considering it first with a gentle toss to get a feel for the weight, then the beautifully crafted stain-glass window of the church across the cobbled street. Anticipation bursting in his chest, he then proceeded to lob the delicate crystal orb at the building with all his strength, seeing it almost blur out of sight with the force of the throw and crash into the window. Upon impact, not only the window, but an entire chunk of the building was singularly _blasted_ out of existence. High pitched screams cut through the quiet of the night almost directly afterwards and more joined into what could almost be a symphony in the chaos that followed.

He hadn't had this much fun in decades—maybe not even ever. It was a whole new brand of warfare. The stupid humans didn't even know how to fight back. (You can't fight what you can't see). He watched as the flesh from an entire frantic crowd of fleeing clergymen _melted_ into a pile of bleached white bones before his very eyes as he casually dropped the glowing green vial Cassia had briefly mentioned as a corrosive poison into their midst. The very ground blackened beneath their gristly remains, and it was here he had to admit that witchcraft was a truly terrifying power. But with that power in _his_ hands…it was _intoxicating_.

When he finally met up with Cassia in the courtyard as planned (after draining a few nuns amidst the chaos), it appeared he had been having a little too much fun, as she was being surrounded by several members of the abbey's guard. Cursing under his breath, he proceeded to pelt the meager remnants of his diminished arsenal upon the aggressors, retrieving his witch from harm's way in the next instant where they watched from a safe distance as the warriors scurried out of their empty armor in the form of rats.

Cassia was laughing, shaking her head in bemusement. "I wonder at the combination which created _that_ effect—fascinating! I will have to experiment with that later…" Screams were still echoing in the burning night around them, as he was certain that one of said unorthodox combinations had summoned horror terrors to carry on the distraction in his absence. He didn't know where they were now, and didn't quite care as the sorceress was beaming at him with bright eyes. "You are a _marvel_."

"Was there ever any doubt of that?" he challenged her with a smirk.

The excitement of the chaos had her eyes dancing and her blood-curls whipping around her, turning her beauty into something primal and feral that appealed to him on a visceral level. Her hand darted forward, snatching up his own and she tugged him after her towards a barred door. "Come, wicked Boy. Timing is of the essence."

The dank dungeons beneath the abbey stunk of excrement and decay he noted after kicking the barred door in. He stuck close to Cassia and tried to drown out the unpleasantness with her spicy scent which he now recognized as something like cinnamon—and something else he could only describe as magic. Always the magic. If he focused he could almost feel it pulsing through her like her blood, just waiting to burst out so he might taste it. But then more guards assaulted them, interrupting his perusal of the attractive vein in her neck.

He dispatched with them quickly, tearing off heads as easily as he used to when his human mother told him to behead a chicken for supper in his living-youth. Their suits of armor were like foil to him, ripping and denting, and renting the vulnerable insides, turned against those it was made to protect. Those in the cells screamed in horror at the blood spilt by what appeared to be nothing more than a young boy—however it soon became clear to them he was anything but. The captive audience was an interesting change for once, he remarked to himself, and thought it a shame he couldn't have one more often. Perhaps he would from then on, he considered, licking the blood from his hands idly.

"Cassia!?" a voice from behind the bars suddenly cried out. "Cassia! Sister?! Is that you?"

"Sister Cassia!" another similar voice called with evident relief.

Both their heads darted towards the sound of the witch's name, but then Cassia darted over, exclaiming, "Arcadia? Calista?!" She reached through the bars to grasp the hands of two, identical women in rags. Underneath the filth of the dungeon, he could see they both held a certain resemblance to his witch… "What are you both _doing_ here?! I thought you both to be settled in the Black Forest by now!"

"We _were_ ," began one, "Father sent us on our way, but—"

"—Mother was displeased…" finished the other.

" _Templars_ ," explained Twin One with disgust.

"She's working with _Templars_!" Twin Two echoed in disbelief, and moved her face closer to the bars to whisper, "And now, _vampires_!" They both backed away when he stepped up beside the elder witch, deciding then was a good time to assert his presence.

Upon seeing Cassia's beguiling ease with said presence, they both simultaneously exclaimed in betrayal, " _Not you too!_ "

And then they both broke off into tangents, screeching at both them, and each other, finishing each other's sentences all the while—it was almost creepy. He looked at Cassia at a loss and she let out a long, put upon sigh in response to his wordless question, shaking her head. She let them argue and screech for only a moment more before bursting out in a deeply commanding tone, " _SILENCE!_ Useless sacks of lubberwort—the both of you! Enough of your sniveling! I have _had_ _it_ with your constant use of incessant _noise_ this night!"

They both shrunk back and fell deathly silent in the face of the elder sister's anger—that was, until Twin One burst out in tears, blubbering out apologies. Twin Two wrapped her arm around her sister consolingly and begged Cassia, "Please don't kill us, Sister! We didn't mean to upset Mother—we will do anything you ask of us from now on— _please_ —"

"I have no intention of killing _either of you_!" Cassia shouted, half in exasperation and half in horror. "I was not even aware you were here! My boy and I came only to retrieve my belongings—not to murder my siblings!"

Both the twins eyed he and the elder witch skeptically on the edge of hysteria. Then Twin Two exclaimed dumbly, "This is _your_ vampire?"

"She is _my_ human," he corrected stiffly, and eyed Cassia with an arched brow. "Your siblings are annoying…"

"I know…" she sighed, raking a hand through her hair as one does when they sense the onset of a headache. She sent him a pleading look next. "Sweet Boy, would it trouble you too much to…"

He had the grate up and off its hinges before she could finish her sentence. The twins, who had shrunk back at his approach, then dashed to their elder sister and proceeded to embrace her simultaneously with cries of gratitude, but it did not escape his notice that they strategically placed Cassia between themselves and him in doing so. It made him want to laugh at their antics, despite himself. Witches were funny.

But Cassia had decidedly had enough of the two of them, prying them both off of her and rounding on them both sternly. " _Enough_. Now, what is this you say about Mother and vampires?"

In absence of one to embrace, the twins held on to each other as one trembled out in a whisper, "Th-there is a group—"

"—Mother is working with a group calling themselves—"

"—The Ancients," Godric finished for them grimly. "Unless I miss my guess."

Both girls stared at him wordlessly and nodded.

Godric exchanged a meaningful glance with Cassia. It appeared the fun was now decidedly _over_. "We need to leave. Now."

"Agreed…" she nodded, and turned to her sisters. "Keep up now. We are to retrieve our belongings and flee this place."

"But…Sister—" Twin One trembled out.

"—what about the others?" Twin Two gestured at the other trembling prisoners in the cells.

Cassia hesitated rigidly, but steeled her face into a cruel mask of indifference. "…It is too late for them now. Be thankful we stopped to spare you from their fate."

For a moment, it looked like they might protest, but one look at Cassia's resolve, and another fleeting one at him had them relenting. "Yes, Sister…" they murmured together, falling in line behind them as they marched down the cellblock.

"Do you know which chamber they keep the effects in?" she barked back at them harshly. "I was unconscious when they brought me in."

"How did you escape?" Twin Two enquired incredulously.

Cassia looked annoyed at the skirting of her question, but answered graciously, sparing him a soft look, "My boy found me…" Then her eyes turned sharp again and she ordered, " _Focus_ , Calista. Where are our belongings being held?"

Twin Two, or Calista, he supposed she was called—the more sensible of the two in his opinion—lifted her nose to the air and gave a sharp sniff, nostrils flaring like a dog. Letting go of her weepy sister, she darted ahead, calling, "This way! It's this way! Follow me!"

"Calista is a shape-shifter," Cassia explained to him as they pursued her. "Not a natural one, but close enough. It's a useful talent."

"Like when you transform into a bird?" he asked her, suddenly remembering a large raven that used to watch over him when he was a child.

"Yes," she smiled. "But I'm nowhere near as talented as little Calista in that art. I can only assume one shape. She can assume any shape she wants at the height of her power, and even retains some of their talents in her human form. Ergo the enhanced sense of smell…" she tapped her nose.

"She likes to be a bear," sniffed the tiny Arcadia, and jumped when he scrutinized her.

"What can you do?" he asked, eyeing the little witch dubiously.

"I-I-I—" she stumbled over he words, looking horrified to be speaking to him, and looked to Cassia as if to ask if it were even allowed. Looking close to rolling her eyes, Cassia only arched a brow at her tiny sister, and gestured as if to say ' _go on then_.' Taking a deep breath, she breathed, "I can see ghosts."

"That is all?" he goaded her, very underwhelmed after what he'd come to know of magic.

" _No_ ," she huffed, affronted. "Sometimes they _talk_. And sometimes, if I ask nicely, they do things for me."

"Such as?" he taunted her wryly, finding antagonizing the youngest witch to be highly entertaining. Cassia gave him a chiding look, but made no move to stop it. In fact, her lips gave the slightest twitch of amusement.

"They warn me of danger," she growled at him.

"Oh, I see. How useful that must be for you in situations like this." He spun theatrically, gesturing at their dismal surroundings widely with his arms. The fact that she would not be here if her imaginary friends _truly_ watched her back went without saying.

Arcadia balled her fists and mumbled at her older sister, "I don't like your vampire. He is _mean_ …"

"I could _show_ you mean, if you like," he zoomed close and whispered it like a promise in her ear, making her jump and put Cassia back between them.

"N-no! I m-m-mean," she squeaked, hiding behind the older witch, face blushing wildly, "perha-ha-haps another time…"

" _Focus_ , Arcadia," Cassia repeated what she had said to the elder twin, and he noticed she had the same meditative and calming tone she used whenever she wanted to teach him something. " _Listen_ … What are the spirits telling you now?"

The girl closed her eyes tightly, and took in a deep shuddery breath of the cold, dank air. He could even see her breath start to become visible, and it appeared the temperature had dropped several degrees in a very quick and sudden way. He felt a sliver of unease worm its way through him as he knew that now was the middle of _summer time_ ; even as he hid below ground and in caves during the day, it still did not become as frigid as it was down in the dungeon this night. And though the temperature did not bother him, he felt strange, and almost violated as if invisible hands were stroking his skin. When he felt his hair start to stand on end, he finally admitted to himself that maybe there _was_ something to the youngest witch after all.

She shuddered again and breathed in a voice that was not her own, "Something…something is…coming…" Her eyes shot open as a high pitched scream could be heard deeper in the dungeon, making them all freeze up. Arcadia dashed ahead, crying out for her sister, "Cali!" He and Cassia followed not far behind, sprinting after the girl passed cells of prisoners, reaching out for them as they passed.

They all halted before a chamber with the door flung wide open. Before them, tiny Calista was held brutally choking by her neck in the long fingered hand of a tall, pallid stranger. Well, not exactly a stranger to Godric, however unfortunate the fact was to admit… His pitch black hair was pushed back from his thin, gaunt, chalk-white face and hung to his shoulders in pin straight locks, his thick roman nose a cruel hook between two black, hawkish eyes—like two lumps of oh-so-unfeeling coal.

" _Vicinius_ …" he snarled through a clenched jaw, fangs automatically dropping in the presence of the enemy vampire, his entire body tensed to spring into action at a moment's notice. One wrong move from any in his proximity and he was not sure what his actions might be. As it was, everyone—barring the clawing and scratching Calista—was as still as statues.

Vicinius turned his head slowly, as if bored. Although the raise of his eyebrows indicated surprise when those lumps of coal landed upon him. "Ah, Godric. I was not expecting _you_ of all people to stumble so conveniently into my realm. You are quite the slippery fox since the destruction of dear Appius, I will admit…" He returned his languid gaze to the struggling witch. "Is this your human…?" Godric tensed further and growled threateningly, to which the Ancient paid no visible reaction to. Instead, he just continued talking in that deceptively pleasant tone. "You know, you really should not let them wander so freely. You never know when something might…" here there was an audible _crack_ , and Calista's struggles ceased, her body slack and ominously limp, "…snuff them out." Vicinius then dropped the girl unceremoniously to the chamber floor and the body landed in a crumpled pile with a final sounding _thud_ of tangled limbs falling around her.

A chilling, unearthly scream clawed its way up Arcadia's throat.

* * *

 **Thanks for the wonderful reception for this story, everyone!**

 **I'd love to hear from you all!**

 **Don't forget to leave a review!**


	7. Monster Mash

**So, I'm starting a trashy music pick from DJ Amity. She really does have the worst taste in music.**

 **Amity's choice for chapter seven is….** ** _Dead Bite_** **from Hollywood Undead!**

 **Disclaimer for this chapter, and the last one since I forgot: Not mine. (Do I really have to put these for every single chapter? That just seems so** ** _excessive_** **…)**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 7: MONSTER MASH**

The girl dropped to her knees weeping pitifully and holding herself as if her arms were the only thing keeping her together. The incessant crying was grating—like a ringing in his ears that did not cease. Godric wanted to silence her. Shake her. Tell her to keep quiet, because crying never solved anything. It just gave them more ammunition. They _liked_ the tears. Fed off of them. They were almost as good as blood. Some vampires even preferred the one over the other. And by the deep savory breath of air Vicinius took in reverently he knew without a doubt that this was one of them.

If Godric was in his right mind, he would have dropped everything, turned tail, and bolted as soon as he caught sight of the Ancient vampire. If he was smart, he would do so right that very moment. He'd leave Cassia and her weepy little sister to their fates. He wouldn't mourn. He wouldn't grieve. He'd be alive to see another night and he'd be _grateful_ for it and every night that followed. He'd survive. That's what he'd always done before and he could do it again. He knew he could. But that's the thing…

…He didn't feel like _just_ surviving anymore.

Glancing at Cassia, he caught her eye. Things were still unclear, but this woman was the key, he felt, to _everything_. He was _connected_ to her in a way he had not been connected to anyone—not even his maker— _especially_ not his maker. She knew parts of him that he'd forgotten about. And though he was no longer human, these parts of him still felt important. All he remembered was the bad. The pain. The torture. Seemingly endless suffering. But all she knew was the good. There were chunks missing, leaving empty voids within him, and he knew somehow that she could fill them up. If he could piece together the past, fill those holes, he might begin to piece together the future. Or go without…

…and continue to be lost.

"Truly," Vicinius took another lingering breath of air and continued to speak dispassionately, shining his pointed fingernails on the lapel of his lavish clothing, "I am impressed by you, young one. Even one such as _I_ respected your maker. So, _do_ tell me…" the Ancient's lips twisted into a cruel facsimile of a grin, "how did you do it?"

And Godric felt rage—true, boiling rage, for what felt like the first time in centuries. For many, many reasons…least of which this cur had the audacity to taunt him about his maker. He was not in any way equipped to deal with another Ancient. He'd gotten lucky with his maker—struck at him when he was at his most… _vulnerable_ —something Godric had an _intimate_ and rather unfortunate knowledge of. Destroying him was another one of his temporary moments of insanity and quite possibly the greatest act he'd ever accomplished—one with many lasting consequences.

More than anything, he hated the feeling of being helpless with an _intense_ passion. He hadn't been helpless in a long time, he thought. _He_ was the one who made others feel helpless now. _He_ was in control. But being in the presence of another Ancient was like stepping back in time to the last miserable years of his human life. And he knew right then and there that he'd never been free. He was still a slave. He could run all he liked, but he'd never be truly free until each and every last Ancient was eradicated from the face of the planet. Perhaps that made him an extremist? Ah, well…details.

He was invested now. No getting out.

But he was going to do this smart. Glancing at Cassia once more, her eyes purposely boring into his, it was clear that she'd come to a similar conclusion. She had a plan. He had a plan. Hopefully they would mesh into one big plan without too much trouble. His eyes flicked back to glower at Vicinius who appeared to like the sound of his own voice a little too much.

"Do not look at me so hatefully, Child," he gestured with his long-fingered hands loftily, "'Tis not as if _I_ make up the rules. Were it up to me, I'd have you _rewarded_ … Appius was a thorn in my side for a millennia. We are kindred spirits, you and I."

Godric wanted to laugh in contempt, but that would have ruined the surprise. That's how he'd done it last time. If you wanted to kill an Ancient, you had to play on their hubris. Shock them with something unpredictable. Something only a lunatic would do. And at that moment, Godric was thankful for his temporary moments of insanity. Without them, he didn't think he'd have worked up the gall for what he was about to do next…

The Ancient was in mid-speech when Godric launched himself into attack. Vicinius was drawling something about, "And now the Frost Queen is out for blood. I suppose it only natural that she would turn to the experts on the subject—"

The element of surprise only got one so far, however. That lasted for about five seconds. Five seconds where he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Cassia had torn off across the chamber as soon as he had. It appeared as if he would be playing distraction once again. And so he was determined to make this count. It might be the last act he ever committed, after all. Surprisingly…he was okay with that. He might have been the pioneer of the concept of 'live free or die' at that point in time.

The entire room shook when his body impacted with the wall of stone. Pain wracked him for the first time in a very long time, but that didn't matter. He shut it out. Turned it off. As soon as nothing was holding him down, he was off again like a trebuchet, speeding towards the Ancient like a glutton for torment. Vicinius was grinning at him in something like wonder.

"You truly believe that you can defeat _me_?" he laughed a high-pitched cruel laugh, catching Godric's forearm easily before he could land a strike. "That lightning will strike twice—" He swung at Vicinius with his free hand then, and _miraculously_ landed a right hook into the elder vampire's cheek, his head turning with the impact. When the Ancient slowly turned back, a stream of blood was dripping sluggishly from his lips which quickly molded into a snarl. And all at once, Godric's vision was turned upside down as he was slammed repeated, _brutally_ into the stone floor, leaving a good sized dent. Through the blinding pain, he had time to notice idly that there were skeletons buried beneath the chamber—a second chamber beneath? Like catacombs? It appeared as if he'd stumbled upon Vicinius' resting place… At any rate, it certainly didn't matter _now_.

He was wrenched from the wreckage of the floor with a sigh from the Ancient vampire, "Now look what you have made me do… I've gone and lost my temper. How unsightly."

From his upside down vantage, Godric vaguely noticed Cassia frantically searching through cubby holes on the opposite side of the room. Vicinius was saying something again, but through the ringing in his ears, and his bleary concentration on the human woman, Godric couldn't comprehend it. Blood was spilling from his nose, and he felt like half his face had been smashed in at one point, but it didn't matter. He had to keep fighting—keep buying time for—

He reached out for the only thing of Vicinius he could grasp—the hem of his fine robes—and deliberately _ripped_. If possible—materialistic as Godric had pegged him for almost instantly—the Ancient vampire's face went even whiter with fury and Godric was flung into yet another wall, leaving an imprint there. More bones seeped out of the cracks in the foundation as he sunk to the floor. It appeared the entire abbey had been built upon a mass grave. He wondered if the whole Christianity stint was just another play by the Ancients. Likely. The thought made him laugh weakly through the blood bubbling from his lips and running down his face—which, as an added bonus, just served to make Vicinius even more furious.

"You think this is a _game_ , Child?" he seethed, stalking towards his unresponsive form. "You think I wished to take invaluable time out of my nights hunting down an insignificant _speck_ like you? Do you find this _amusing_!?" He seized the front of Godric's tattered jerkin and hauled him up to eyelevel. The enraged Ancient continued in a stream of how exactly he planned on disposing of him in cruel and insidious detail, but once more, Godric was no longer listening.

Through faltering vision, just over Vicinius' shoulder, Godric saw something move jerkily—unnaturally. At his unfocused gaze, the Ancient finally paused in his promises of painful demise upon delivering him to the tribunal, and turned to cast an aggravated glance over his shoulder—but he didn't get that far. It was the sound that registered first. The foul cracking of bones knocking together and then the stench of rotting flesh bombarded the senses overwhelmingly. Long, white, skeletal hands with fingers that moved like spiders' legs creeped over his shoulders and gripped the angry vampire, brutally ripping through the fine fabric of his robes and into skin with crippling strength.

" _What_ —"

Godric sunk back to the cracked floor again as Vicinius was abruptly torn away from his person by what appeared to be a conglomeration of bones and viscous, dripping corpses in various stages of decomposition. Together, the mass formed a monstrosity of nightmares, a golem made from rotting flesh and bone. Glazed, empty eyes looked hungrily out of the horror creature's orifices as multiple limbs extended and dragged away a snarling Vicinius back towards their source. It looked to be coming from the hole the Ancient vampire had made in the floor with Godric's head. More dead were creeping out of the cracks in the walls, some stumbling, some dragging themselves to join with the abomination that subdued Vicinius, slowly dragging him back to the hole…

He put up more than a good fight, ripping off the cadaverous limbs that gripped at him viciously, attempting to claw himself away from the mass of dead, but they were much too many, and much too strong. Before long, he was subdued—his arms and legs held prostrate with the floor and unable to move, though he sure did _try_ —and he was dragged before a shadowed figure in a deep crimson robe, her face obscured by a voluminous cowl.

She stepped towards the snarling vampire and asked with foreboding, "Was it you who murdered all these people?" When his answer was yet another snarl she shrugged and said, "Either way, you certainly have built a paradise here for one of my particular skillset… I will deal with you later."

And with that, she stalked away, tossing some garments and trinkets at Arcadia as she went. The girl still wept, holding close the body of her sister and rocking her back and forth as tremors wracked her, and jumped as a silvery cloak hit her nigh in the face. "Put it on," Cassia barked at her commandingly, "and for Calista's sake, pull yourself together, girl! _Focus_. Do not allow her spirit to slip away."

"But-but there's…" she stammered out, overwhelmed as she looked around frantically at things no one else could see, "…s-so _many_. So many have died here—how can I find her amongst them all?"

"Irrelevant. Just do it," Cassia snapped as she made her way over to Godric, robes flapping behind her. She knelt before his form, still collapsed against the wall, supporting his head in the dent where he'd hit it. He could see her face now beneath the cowl, eyes frantic with worry as she examined him, and she whispered, "You fought bravely, my Boy…"

He let out a cynical snort that sent his head into a heavy ache. If his heart still beat, it would be pounding, he wagered. Now, it was trying to heal itself, but his strength was failing him. If he did not feed soon, he would be in for a long recovery from the beating he had just endured. Though he was not so humiliated by the defeat as he was astounded that he had survived it at all… At that thought, he sent a grim look at the creature that had pried Vicinius away from him and asked, "What is that… _thing_? It is not natural."

"No, no it is not…" Cassia agreed with a sigh. "But there is no time to explain. May I move you? Can you walk?"

He could certainly try.

In the end, Cassia stooped and lifted his arm over her shoulders, removing him from his latest crater, and he staggered along beside her. His blood stained her robes—the first he had seen her in, he realized, centuries ago—but as the drops soaked in, it appeared to become one with the overall crimson color of the garb; it was already _dyed_ with blood. A little more didn't hurt. When the witch set them both down by the side of the dead girl and her sister, Godric had trouble not seizing the body and draining it right then and there. Stagnant dead blood was nowhere near as pleasant as pulsing live blood, but you'd be hard pressed to find a vampire who could resist a fresh corpse still warm to the touch. In his wounded state he was surprised he managed to find himself capable of paying attention to anything else.

As it was, it was the chilling sensation of a million fingers ghosting over his skin that brought him out of his blood induced daze and even he let out an involuntary shiver. Arcadia was doing her witch thing again. Idly, he noticed her eyes roll back into her head, displaying only the bloodshot whites. It was an eerie sight. The girl's face crumpled and she shook her head. "I can't f-find her. I can't—"

"Try _harder_ ," Cassia ordered curtly, sitting stiffly beside him and the body and hovering her hands up and down it. They halted over Calista's still chest where suddenly, abruptly, and reminiscent of a puppet-master, Cassia _pulled_. With the rise of her Cassia's hands so also rose her sister's chest with a wheezing breath. Godric heard a stilted heartbeat within and stared on in shocked silence at the corpse his witch had just revived with a flick of her wrists.

"She lives…" he breathed in wonder. Perhaps Jesus rising from the dead was not such a farfetched notion after all…?

"No," Cassia immediately dashed his imaginings distractedly as she continued to move her hands up and down with her sister's breathing. "It is but a false life. I may control her like a puppet, but there is no true life within her. She will not walk on her own. Not until I say so." Her eyes then bore into Arcadia who still shuddered with stifled sobs. "…That is why you must _pull yourself together, you sentimental fool, and find her spirit_!" Cassia's voice was sharp as a knife. "This is no time for grief or tears! I have no sacrifice available to perform a full resurrection and no strength for it besides with the neck still needing healing! Ooh…the body must be _intact_ if we're going to do this manually—the neck is still… How on earth am I to heal this…?" She trailed off dismally with a sigh as she continued her perusal of the breathing body.

"Sacrifice the vampire!" Arcadia retaliated in anger, her shaking finger shooting towards the snarling Ancient, still being held down by the flesh monster—which was looking hungrier and hungrier as the moments elapsed, Godric noticed.

Exasperation slackened Cassia's features as she pointed out dryly to the girl, as if she were speaking to an idiot, "A vampire is _dead_ , Arcadia. One cannot sacrifice a vampire and expect it to yield _life_ …"

"Perhaps life cannot come from death," Godric found himself speaking, eying Vicinius with a similar venom to Arcadia's. And perhaps he was mad for saying it, but he finally settled on divulging one of the vampire kind's greatest secrets—one of the few things he had managed to learn from his maker before he ended him, "but a vampire's blood can _heal_ _a mortal's wounds_ …" His lips twisted into a vindictive grin settled on Vicinus' suddenly very still form. His eyes were bulging at Godric in pure fury as he added with glee, "The older the blood, the stronger the effect…"

Cassia followed his gaze towards Vicinius with intrigue, rising to her feet and approaching the growling Ancient. "Well…that is certainly convenient. 'Tis fortunate I decided to deal with you later." And with that, without warning, and a flick of Cassia's hands and if _yanking_ something Godric watched as Vicinius' body jerked unpleasantly. "As it is…" his body gave another jerk, "I think I will deal with you _now_."

"What _are_ you…?" Vicinius gasped out as his back arched in pain.

"Did your superiors not tell you what you were to be dealing with upon my capture?" She arched a brow, her voice deceptively pleasant. "That seems rather negligent of them… Is my dear mother not collaborating with your Ancients and having them do her dirty work as we speak?" Her lips twisted into a cruel grin as Vicinius twitched again, like a child who pulls the wings off a dragonfly. "You truly have no idea…do you? 'Tis almost pitiful… But just as the same could be said of you with your victims here," her grin widened as her fingers readied themselves for some complicated maneuver, "…you will find no mercy within me."

She then gave another brutal _yank_ , and without warning, bursts of wine red blood _exploded_ out of Vicinius from every orifice—eyes, ears, nose, mouth—all gaping open like wounds… A horrible sound, almost animalistic in its suffering, emitted from the Ancient vampire as he was slowly and systematically drained of his blood. Godric watched in morbid fascination as the witch funneled the mass through the air directly into Calista's small form—would that amount of blood even _fit_ inside her without overflowing, he wondered. Somehow, Cassia managed it, soon leaving the drained Ancient slumped in the hold of the horror creature she had created.

"Now, what shall I do with you…?" she hummed, tapping her fingers rhythmically against her hip as she thought, her eyes casting over Vicinius' limp form and the creature holding him calculatingly. "Perhaps a poetic ending is called for… These poor people whom you have savaged…" A malicious cackle erupted from her as Godric could almost _see_ a twisted idea forming in her mind. "You have feasted upon them, no? Their blood, their lives, their souls…" Her white teeth glinted in the light as she grinned. "Now too shall you be feasted upon in return"—her voice held an ominous promise—"it is _your turn_ to become the meal."

The Ancient could not even struggle or snarl any longer—only his eyes moved frantically as the putrid smelling monster of dripping flesh and twisted bone dragged him slowly across the cracked floor and down the hole from which they had emerged. It was not long after he disappeared below that they heard the distinct sounds of something snapping and ripping wetly…and, faintly, as if though a clenched jaw, Vicinius' muffled screams. Godric had the feeling that if he were to walk over to stand beside Cassia and look down into that hole, the sight that would await him would haunt him throughout the ages…

Cassia merely smirked.

For the first time, he almost wished his maker was alive—because he now fully believed what she had said about an 'eternity of torment.' Watching her standing there with that look on her face, he knew she was not only fully capable of any kind of cruelty imaginable, but then some. They had named her 'Cassia the Cruel' for a reason, and now he knew why. Looking at her then, he thought it likely that long ago, in far ancient times, men might have erected shrines in supplication, created idols in her image, even worshiped her as an avenging god…

She was amazing.

She soon turned on her heel, blood robes billowing in her wake as she approached Calista once more, hands hovering over her neck now assessing. She looked up at him with bright eyes and the affirmation, "You were right. It _worked_ …"

"A few drops would have sufficed," he told her. "I am unsure what might happen to a human who has consumed so much vampire blood…"

"I doubt it can do much harm at this point," Cassia spoke flippantly, snatching up the girl's arm and waving at him with it. "She's dead. See?"

He nodded slowly. "True… However, if she stays that way, it is possible that she might be brought over within a few nights."

"Brought over where…?" Arcadia asked as Cassia's expression slowly fell slack with realization.

"I assume you mean 'brought over' as a vampire…correct?" the elder witch scarcely breathed.

Godric nodded. "Had I known you were going to use _all_ of Vicinius' blood, I might have warned you… Although I can't say I disapprove of your methods." A grin spread across his face. "It takes a vampire several decades to recover from such a thing. Even more, I would wager, from what is happening to him down below as we speak…"

The wet sounds of flesh ripping filled the ominous silence.

A moment later, Cassia's gaze flashed to Arcadia and she commanded, "You need to find Calista's essence. _Now_." She added harshly, "Unless, of course, you'd prefer having a _vampire_ for a sister." She gestured towards Godric with a jerk of her shoulder. "You'll have no judgements from me or my Boy… Calista might not be too pleased with you though." She turned and asked Godric, "Isn't it true that new vampires are often volatile and unstable?"

His lips curled into a smirk as he eyed Calista's still form. "Without her maker, the girl would be nigh uncontrollable… Furthermore, without guidance, fledglings do not often survive the first year." He arched his brows at Arcadia who had gone decidedly white. "Unless _you_ would like to take responsibility for her. How confident do you feel about keeping a baby vampire properly fed?" The girl went even paler and Cassia nodded at him in approval as he hammered in the final point mercilessly, "If you want to keep her from feeding on others, you'll have to feed her yourself—"

"Alright!" Arcadia burst out. "Alright, alright! I'll try again, just—" she attempted to compose herself, sitting straighter and breathing in deeply, closing her eyes "—just give me a moment…"

Once more the air around them chilled substantially, and the sweeping of invisible fingers was back. He did not like Arcadia's power, he decided. It made him feel on edge… Speaking of which, his body stiffened as he heard the sounds of marching several levels overhead. He looked at Cassia and murmured, "Reinforcements are coming… Perhaps it _would_ be best just to allow the girl to come over." He even reluctantly offered, "They can travel with us for a while… I can teach the girl what I've learned over the centuries whilst the other one learns to keep her in check."

Cassia cast him a considering look, and another worried one at the ceiling where Godric could hear the sounds of soldiers' footfalls growing louder. She admitted softly, "You may be right…"

But Arcadia shook her head wildly, eyes shooting open widely to display bloodshot whites, and a rasping voice escaped her, " _No! I do not wish to come back! 'Tis not right!"_

Cassia blinked in surprise and asked carefully, "Calista…is that you?"

 _"I will not come back!"_ the voice that was not Arcadia's ripped out in a ghastly wail from her person. _"You cannot make me!"_

"No…" Cassia said slowly, cautiously. "You are right about that. We cannot make you do anything without your permission… 'Tis your choice. However," she paused deliberately, "the vampire curse will compel you back with or without your consent. And by then, you will no longer have a choice…" She glanced at Godric and relayed, "My Boy has kindly offered to teach you what he knows if that is the case, but you must make the choice now, or we will not be able to escape this place. Do you understand, Little Sister?" She glanced at Godric again, this time resolved. "We _will_ leave you here if you cannot make a choice. We're running out of time."

The blank eyed form of Arcadia stared back at them with a vacantness uncharacteristic of the girl's usually animated features. It was soon after that her head fell back, and her body arched, mouth gaping open in a silent scream as a weightless silvery substance escaped from her. Cassia hurriedly pinched the dead girl's mouth open as well and they watched as it went inside, filling Calista with a light she had previously been missing. And though Cassia had been animating the body with manual breathing, manual heartbeats, you could visibly tell the difference when she started breathing on her own—as if she'd never breathed a day in her life, like a fish out of water, gasping it, guzzling it down like she was running out. Her eyes shot open next, darting from to each of their faces before bolting up, cradling her previously broken neck.

"Good," Cassia clutched one of the girl's shoulders good-naturedly. "Gather your effects. We must depart immediately."

"You cannot allow her catch her breath first—" Arcadia demanded, wrapping her arms around her sister defensively.

"No," she denied bluntly. "You may catch your breath when you are dead…" She paused, eyeing Calista carefully, "… _again_." With one hand, she slung Godric's arm over her shoulders once more, picking up a wicked looking iron staff with a blade on one end and a wide ring on the other. "Let us go. _Now_."

"Yes, Sister…" Arcadia murmured, and attempted to haul Calista up similarly, but was surprised when the girl stood on her own with little effort. Calista was staring at her hands like she'd never seen them before, donning deep mauve robes and an amulet that looked like it was made of bear claws before dutifully following Cassia out of the chamber, Arcadia trailing after her in silver.

"I feel _power_ …" the girl marveled, still staring at her hands peculiarly. "What did you do to me? What happened?"

"Perhaps it is good you do not remember…" Cassia sighed, now at full strength, flicking her staff lazily as they passed cell doors to which they directly flew open. Trembling prisoners were beginning to file out behind them, thanking their gods for their good fortune.

Calista did not press, looking at Arcadia questioningly as she sidled up and laced their fingers together, but did not protest. She smiled dumbly at her younger sister when she murmured tearfully, "I don't ever want to lose you again."

Grinning, Calista told her, "I will never leave you, my Heart. We made a promise, ages ago, during the Trials. Don't you remember?"

Sniffing, Arcadia nodded, reciting, "Together…or not at all."

"That's right! And together we shall stay!" Calista chirped cheerfully. "So no more tears, Cadi."

Arcadia only succeeded in creating more of them.

"I thought you said your sisters delighted in destroying each other…" Godric muttered to Cassia dryly. The love fest was driving him up a wall… He'd frankly find them more bearable if they _were_ trying to destroy each other.

"Not these two," she amended her previous statement distractedly, continuing to concentrate on the path ahead. "Most close siblings and relations are pitted against each other in witch families. There is a purpose for that… But Arcadia and Calista are unique. They've both fought relentlessly against tradition for their entire lives. 'Tis quite admirable, in a way… Not many would have the strength to do so." She frowned. "Not even I…" She shook her head. "But that was very long ago… Breaking tradition was nearly unthinkable back then."

He got the feeling Cassia was avoiding some subject, but he didn't press. He might be able to glamour it out of her later if his curiosity niggled at him enough. He tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other first. He decided he'd wait a couple millennia before having a head-on collision with another Ancient. And now that his latest moment of insanity had come to its conclusion, now ensued the inevitable 'Why did I _ever_ think for a single _moment_ that it would be a good idea? _Why_?' speech. But he reasoned that he was alive, his allies were alive, Cassia was still with him, and Vicinius was currently being devoured by a living dead monstrosity. All in all, he surmised that it had been a pretty good night, all things considered…

That was until they emerged from the dungeons in a courtyard filled with what appeared to be the entirety of Constantinople's guard…

Had he been at full strength, he might have been able to take them all. _Maybe_. But he knew his limits. With over a hundred armed men in the yard, it was optimistic to assume that he'd get through maybe a fourth of them before someone decapitated him. He could barely stand up straight, much less move at his habitual vampric speed. Glumly, with a resigned sort of acceptance, he glanced at Cassia to see the same look on her face as she shook her head, confirming his suspicions.

"My influence lies with the dead, not the living…" she whispered despairingly.

"Well," he remarked with a grim sort of cheer, "it _was_ a good night, at any rate…"

Her lips twisted into a tired smile when she looked at him, despite the circumstances. "I am glad you found me."

"Should have done it sooner," he returned, mirroring her smile thoughtlessly.

"Would have, could have, should have… Careful, Boy," she mused back, "that way leads to madness… I would know."

He would have asked questions, but a soldier pointed his spear at them and cried, "Halt! In the name of the Emperor Constantine!"

He and Cassia took one look at him, then exchanged a very heavy glance before breaking out into snickers that soon became full blown laughter. Doubled over, he remarked, "One would think your emperor would thank us! We were only following his marvelous example, do you see?" He gestured around at the half destroyed abbey.

Sneering, the guard barked, "For this act of heresy against the sanctity of our holy city, as captain of the guard, I hereby sentence you to death!"

" _No_!" a voice called from behind them—one of the prisoners they had freed on their way out. An entire crowd was filing out of the dungeons behind them. "We have been imprisoned here unjustly! And fed upon by monsters!" the prisoner cried heatedly. "These are our saviors where you and the emperor would let us rot and fall prey to evil! We will be free!" And even more prisoners emerged from the broken doors, and he noted with interest that some of them had managed to find the armory…

Things escalated quickly from there.

Normally, he would have found the battle that broke out to be thrilling, preying on both sides and stroking the flames of chaos. But Godric was bone tired, and severely weakened. Furthermore, the sun would be up in a matter of hours—he could feel it coming. And having to dodge swords and flying axes was not conductive to a swift getaway. And then the twins were falling behind—he cursed as Cassia rounded on them, hollering, _"Keep up!"_

"No, Sister!" Calista grinned a rather unnerving grin and he noticed that her teeth looked a little too sharp for a normal human. "The power… I have the power to do it now!"

The girl began to laugh joyfully as her shape distorted, and Godric watched in mystified disbelief as her tiny form stretched and widened impossibly, growing until it towered menacingly over all in the courtyard. There before him was a creature Godric had only heard about in tales, covered in scales as black as night with red, glowing eyes split by vertical slits. On the creature's back, two leathery wings spread to block out the sky and its spiny neck curved as it threw its head back and _roared_ , shaking them all down to their bones. That was around the time just about everyone in the courtyard started screaming and running in terror…

"Well, get on!" Arcadia called, already half way up the creature's back.

Cassia and Godric glanced at each other for only a moment before hurrying to comply. They didn't need to be told twice. Especially when it was much more sensible not to be on the ground and in the way when Calista was making shish-kabobs out of guards with her brand new claws. And just when they thought it couldn't get any worse, she opened up her maw lined with fangs—each as big around as a torso—and belched out a stream of blue _fire_. She began working her wings next, gradually lifting off from the ground while they valiantly attempted to stay on board by holding on to her numerous neck spikes. Arcadia, however—bizarrely accustomed to riding upon her sister's various forms—was sitting right upon Calista's head, cheering her on with wild enthusiasm.

"You never told me your sister could turn into a dragon."

"I didn't think it was _possible_ ," Cassia hissed back. "Dragons are a myth!"

"Not anymore…" he pointed out needlessly, as they were now hanging onto one for dear life.

Calista flew high, circling the abbey once, then on the second circle, she let out another long stream of fire, setting the entire building alight in roaring flames before flying off into the night with a thundering roar. They must have been flying for hours when Godric felt himself finally reach the end of his strength, dawn just around the corner. The only thing that stopped him from tumbling off the flying monster was Cassia's quick reflexes, in which event she vehemently demanded that they land. They'd reached the edge of a mighty forest by then.

"The Black Forest," she told him as she half-carried him along. "We'll be safe within the boarders… There is a neutral coven who makes their home here, though…" She paused, glancing over him. "I'm not sure how fond they are of vampires…"

He managed to mumble out several forceful curses in Gaelic—all of which were in favor of _not_ going to the coven. Arcadia looked at him with genuine concern and asked Cassia, "Is he going to be alright…?"

He couldn't even manage to glare at the little twit, unable to lift his head, but he thought the very vampire snarl he answered her with got his point across just as well. The dragon Calista let out a warning growl, evidently more on his wavelength in this form than in her other one, and that shut him up. No point in posturing or baring his fangs at this stage. Especially not with a _dragon_ whose fangs were clearly _much_ bigger… Not a smart move.

"I think we shall part ways here for now," Cassia told the two of them with a peaceable smile, attempting to calm the charged atmosphere and tactfully disengage. "Surely the two of you cannot possibly get into any more trouble with the forest this close."

"Ooh, don't say that Sister," Arcadia shook her head, "there's a jinx on those words."

She only laughed in response. "Farewell, and learn much from the Black Forest Coven. I will inform Father of your safe arrival. Avoid Mother if at all possible."

"W-wait, Sister—about Mother—" the girl called after her as she went to turn.

"What _about_ Mother…?" Cassia's voice was full of foreboding.

"I—we—" Arcadia stumbled over her words, and her face was twisted in uncertainty. Finally, she burst out, "Sister, we went to visit Mother's winter palace, and-and there—" she swallowed thickly "—there was a woman there…behind a locked door. She told us crazy stories. Told us we were going to be locked up and burned, but…we didn't believe her then."

Godric felt every muscle in Cassia's body go tight and after a tense moment of silence, she asked, "…Did she tell you her name?"

"She…she said her name was Kassandra…" Arcadia murmured quietly. "I don't think we were supposed to know about her… Perhaps that's why Mother had us kidnapped…"

" _Kassandra_ …" Cassia whispered the name ruefully. "No…impossible. But…could it be…?" More strongly, she asked the girl, "Are you certain she gave you this name? No other?"

"She said she was known as Kassandra of Ilium," said Calista as she reverted to human form. Her teeth looked sharper than ever. "But, Sister… Was Ilium not vanquished _ages_ ago? Burned to ruins?" She paused for a moment before adding, "She sounded mad. We did not believe a word she said."

" _Impossible_ …" Cassia whispered again. "Mother said she was _murdered_ in Mycenae with her babes…" She trailed off then gave her head a little shake, refocusing on the twins who stared at her with growing trepidation. "You must not repeat this to _anyone_. Do you hear me? No one must know."

They both nodded hurriedly and he took that moment to remind her weakly, "Cassia… The sun…"

"Yes," she acknowledged him gently, before looking back at the twins. "We must depart. I am trusting the two of you to look after yourselves and keep this information safe. Do not fail me."

"We will not," they assured simultaneously.

"Farewell, Sister…" said Arcadia sadly.

"Farewell," Calista echoed with a smile, waving at them before taking her sister's hand and running off into the forest, changing into a bear mid-stride, Arcadia jumping astride the lumbering creature's back before they were both disappeared, lost amidst the tall trees. And with that, Cassia hauled him off towards the opposite end of the wood, her stride steady and swift.

"What was all that about…?" he murmured into her shoulder.

"Perhaps I shall tell you one night," she proposed, "but that night is not this night. 'Tis a long, complicated tale of ages past, and not one to be told when short of time… But know that it worries me greatly to hear that Kassandra might be alive. This is…" she paused, searching for the words, "disheartening news…"

She eventually stopped before an enormous tree with a peculiar knot on the front that almost looked like a knocker. She then proceeded to knock with an odd, practiced rhythm only she knew, revealing a hidden door and pulling it open to a spacious room with another one of her lavish beds. "'Tis one of my more modest dwellings but we should be safe here for now…" she murmured, guiding him over where he practically collapsed into the plush feather mattress. Cassia's tense face morphed into one of concern as she sat by his side, looking over him, fretting hands hovering over the wounds that had yet to heal due to his waning strength.

"I apologize, I have not been able to see to your injuries sooner… I—" she broke off, lifting her hands away with a frown. "I…cannot heal you." She looked distraught over this discovery.

His lips canted at her wryly. "Once I have fed I will heal on my own," he reminded her; it appeared for a moment as if she had forgotten he was a vampire.

Blinking once, twice, she gave her head a little shake. "Yes, of course you will… What was I thinking?" She eyed his many wounds, now healing at an almost _human_ pace, and frowned deeply.

A heavy silence fell over them and he closed his eyes, waiting for the sun to finally rise and take him. He was going to have a fun time trying to hunt like this the next eve. Then again, perhaps a challenge was just what he need—

"You can feed from me."

His eyes snapped open.

Spotting the resolve in her face, he knew she was serious. Yes, he might have fantasized about her giving herself to him willingly, but he never thought she actually _would_. Not without heavy influence from a glamour, at least. He wondered briefly if he had done it unconsciously, but discarded that—not only did he not have the strength for such a feat at the moment, but he had not been making eye-contact either. She had to be acting on her own initiative.

At his incredulous face, she amended, "Just enough to get you by… You can do it _without_ killing, yes?"

He didn't know. Yes, he knew it was possible, but he'd never actually _tried_. Never wanted to. Never cared to. His maker certainly never taught him. But he nodded 'yes' hurriedly before his silence could be construed as uncertainty—even if he _was_ uncertain. He thought she might retract her miraculous offer if he let her know that. He inwardly scolded himself. _Of course_ he could stop if he wanted to. He was almost four-hundred years old, not a child. He could control himself if he needed to. And he would. He eyed her neck determinedly. This was just another challenge.

He heard her sharp intake of breath as his fangs pierced through his gums sharply, and he almost expected her to bolt right then and there. But she didn't. No, ever contrary to expectations, Cassia reached out, pulling him towards her in a gentle embrace. _Carefully_ , he reminded himself. He needed to remember to be _careful_. And with that word firmly repeating itself in his mind, he tentatively moved to return her embrace…

Her scent alone was just about enough to make him throw caution to the winds.

He bit down on his cheek to return his focus but it was _so_ very difficult. How did anyone do this? It took an excruciating amount of effort to refrain from the urge to tear into her savagely, and his fangs ached to do just that. But he repeated the word again, _carefully…carefully…_ as he slowly lowered his lips to her barred neck. Her small gasp as they made cool contact with her burning skin almost threw him over the deep end.

" _Do not move_ ," he warned her in a voice he almost didn't recognize—strained and hoarse. He wasn't sure what he'd do if she moved. He thought for a moment before adding, "Do not scream either…" If she screamed, he was done. There would be no stopping him then.

"Alright…" she promised as he buried his face in her neck, trying to acclimate to her overwhelming scent. Maybe if he got used to it…

No. No, that just made it worse. If he was going to do this, he needed to do it quickly. But carefully. _Carefully_. His lips touched her skin again and he was pleased when she didn't make a sound—he'd lose his mind, otherwise. It excited him too much. She didn't scream or gasp either when his fangs scraped against the pulsing vein in her neck. It was impossible to ask her to slow her heartbeat down. It was the only thing that betrayed her fear. But he could hear it so clearly. Even _feel it_ as his fangs sunk deeply— _carefully_ —into her delicate flesh.

But as soon as the first drop of her blood flowed into him, he was gone.

She tasted like _magic_.

* * *

 **Wow, guys! I can see a lot of you are liking this story! (I haven't seen a traffic graph look like that in ages!)**

 **Just let me know you're there!**

 **Anyway, this marks the end of episode 1 with Cassia and Godric. We're going to get back to Godric and Amity (and Eric, uh-oh) next chapter!**


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